I never realized my parents’ sacrifice until now.
Leaving their home for a foreign country with no family.
Surrounded by strangers who knew nothing about their culture, their upbringing.
Decorating their home knowing their family won’t stop by for large gatherings
Cooking a meal for two, every day, then sharing it through letters sent home.
My mom gave birth without her parents by her side. She missed the sight of them becoming grandparents. They missed the sight of their daughter becoming a mother. My dad earned his MBA without his parents cheering him on during his graduation. He sent home pictures they would receive by letter a few weeks later.
My mother couldn’t take me to India so I would live her childhood. I wouldn’t drink badam milk on hot summers like her. I wouldn’t go outside everyday to play kabaddi. Eat warm gulab jamuns, and sweet, sticky jalebis. Cold, rainy days, sitting under a blanket and drinking hot chai and steaming pakoras.
But still, she made it better. She brought India to me. She sang me to sleep every night, the same lullabies her mom sang to her. We played kabaddi, changing the rules for two players. She made gulab jamun and jalebi at home. Chai was drunk everyday.
They never really left their home behind. They made a new one filled with memories for me to cherish.
It was their biggest sacrifice. I never realized it.
I do now.
-m.n.
