Part 2: “Old lady, I have some work to do, the house is too small” – The son chased the old lady to sleep next to the chicken coop. On the last rainy night, the old lady suddenly disappeared… Two months later, the whole family was surprised to receive a note from an unexpected place.
Old lady Diya Sharma – now nearly eighty years old – lives with her youngest son, Arjun and his wife, in a three-room house with a red tiled roof in a small village in Kerala state, India. That house, which was her pride during her long years as a teacher, was built from the couple’s meager salary and frugality during difficult times. At that time, everyone in the village praised:

“Diya – Mr. Rajan’s family is truly blessed, their children will have a lot of fun in the future.”

But fate was ironic. Her husband – Mr. Rajan – died early of heart disease, leaving her to work hard to raise three children. The two older children got married and worked far away, leaving only Arjun – the youngest son, living with his mother. Therefore, she poured all her love and trust into him. After the house was renovated, she put Arjun’s name on it, thinking to herself:

“The youngest son will stay with me, take care of the incense for his father, when I am old and weak, I will have peace of mind with him and my daughter-in-law taking care of me.”

But life is not as easy as they wished.

In the early years, Arjun and his wife were still obedient, even knowing how to cook porridge for their mother in the morning, making a cup of hot tea. The daughter-in-law – Leela – was a girl from the rural town of Kerala, skillful, talented, and spoke softly. Mrs. Diya loved her very much, considering her as her own daughter.

Then, when her grandchild was born, everything gradually changed. Leela began to get annoyed when she was absent-minded, slow, and broke dishes. One day, when she was busy washing rice, Leela waved her hand:

“Just let me do it, your hands are shaking, the rice is spilled out!”

The words sounded light, but Leela’s eyes were filled with a bit of coldness, making Mrs. Diya’s heart sink. As for Arjun – the son who used to be close to his mother – now only knew how to bury his face in his phone, after work he drank with friends, and when he came home he rarely asked after her.

Every night, she still tried to prepare dinner and make room for her children and grandchildren. But as the days went by, the meals became heavier. The daughter-in-law grimaced:

“Mom, how many times have I told you, when you cook rice, add less salt, why is it so salty? The baby cried when he ate it!”

“Oh… I forgot, I’ll learn from my experience next time…”

“Next time, next time! You always forget!”

Then Leela turned to her husband:

“Look, how can you stand living with your mother like this? The smell of medicine and essential oils is everywhere in the house. You don’t even dare turn on the TV too loud, you have to watch her when cooking rice…”

Arjun sighed, silent. But that silence was more painful to Mrs. Diya than a hundred scoldings.

That day, it was raining heavily. The cold wind blew through every crack in the door. Mrs. Diya was coughing, her back ached, she wanted to ask her daughter-in-law for a cup of warm water. But as soon as she spoke, Leela let out an annoyed voice:

“Mom, just go to sleep. You cry every night, this house is not a hospital”!

She was silent. The cold seeped through the thin blanket. The sound of rain falling steadily seemed to lull the lonely person to sleep.

Near midnight, Leela shouted to her husband on the porch:

“I’m old, I can’t do anything, I just pee and pee, the house is cramped!”
“The rice must be lightly seasoned, I don’t dare turn on the TV, living like I’m in prison!”
“What’s wrong with you saying that… – Arjun hesitated.”
“What’s wrong? I can’t stand it anymore!”

Mrs. Diya heard every word clearly. Each sentence was like a needle prick. She sat up, tremblingly folded the torn mat, rolled up the old blanket, then quietly went behind the chicken coop. There was a makeshift shelter, the ground was damp, the smell of straw mixed with chicken droppings was strong. She spread a mat down, lay on her side, curled up. She didn’t cry, just sighed. A sigh that seemed to release all the resentment of a woman who had sacrificed her whole life for her husband and children, only to end up becoming a stranger in her own home.

The sky cleared after the rain. Leela woke up early, saw the chicken coop was quiet. The old mat was gone, along with the thin blanket. In the yard, there were only a few shoe prints on the wet ground. Leela frowned:

“She must have gone back to her mother’s hometown. But that’s good, she doesn’t have to worry about cooking, the house is cleaner”!

Arjun listened and felt down, but still said nothing. He thought to himself: “She must be sulking, she’ll be back in a few days.”

No one went to look for her. No one reported to the authorities. In the following days, the house was still lit, there was still laughter, except that the soft coughs every morning and the old man picking vegetables by the doorstep were completely absent.

One afternoon in August, when the whole Sharma family was meeting at the village communal house to discuss the division of the ancestral land, Mr. Thinh – Mrs. Diya’s nephew – suddenly received a package sent from…

“Sunshine Home” Nursing Home – Chennai. Sender: Diya Sharma. Everyone was surprised.

Inside was an envelope with notarized documents, along with a clear photo and fingerprints. The letter was written in neat, round handwriting, still the same as the teacher’s handwriting:

“I – Diya Sharma – confirm that I am still lucid and in good health. I am currently living at Sunshine Nursing Home, Chennai.
I am the legal owner of a 400m² plot of land in the village center, a level 4 house that is being rented out, and a savings book worth 1.3 billion INR deposited at HDFC Bank.
I now officially disinherit my youngest son Arjun and his wife and daughter-in-law Leela because of their mistreatment and insult to my elderly mother.
I authorize the transfer of all the above assets to the Lonely Elderly Care Fund, with the hope that people in similar situations will have a warmer home than the place I used to call ‘family’.
Signed: Diya Sharma
Date… at Sunshine Nursing Home, Chennai.”

Attached was a photo: Diya sitting by the window, wearing a new sweater, her hair neatly tied up, her eyes bright, her mouth smiling kindly. The golden sunlight covered her old but strangely serene face. The whole meeting room was silent.

Arjun held the paper tremblingly, his voice hoarse:

“Mom… are you still alive? Why did you do that to me?”

Leela’s face was pale, stammering:

“Mom… I… I didn’t mean any harm, it’s just”…

The head of the family – who used to love Diya very much – just gritted his teeth:

“Mom is alive. But she doesn’t believe you guys are family anymore”!

The atmosphere was so heavy it was suffocating. In the following days, the story spread throughout the village. Some sympathized, others blamed.

At the Nursing Home, Diya began a different life. She spoke little, only liked to sit by the window looking out at the flower garden. The early morning sunlight shone through the hibiscus flowers, the wind carried the faint scent of magnolias. The old people in the same room loved her, everyone called her “teacher Diya”.

A year later, Arjun’s family held a memorial service for his father, but the three-room house was still cold as if it had just lost its soul. In the middle of the ceremony, someone brought a small envelope, sent by Diya Sharma. Inside was only a small card with a few lines:

“Your father is far away, so he must understand. I don’t resent him, but I just regret that people’s hearts change too quickly. I hope you live more kindly, so that in the future, your children and grandchildren will not be ashamed like I was.
Mom – Diya.”

Arjun sat silently, tears falling into the wine cup. Leela remained silent, not daring to look at anyone. The house was still there, but cold and empty.

People in Kerala’s village talked about that story for many years after. Every time it rained, anyone passing by the road in front of Arjun’s house would shiver. The old people often said:

“Don’t wait until your old mother passes away in the rain, then you realize you are standing in the middle of a desert of love.”

Because there are rains that not only wash away the dust, but also wash away the rotten affection in people’s hearts. And when people realize, that mother has found her own peaceful place — not in the spacious house in the middle of the village, but in a small, sunny room, where she is affectionately called: “Grandma Diya.”