Mrs. Shanta Devi, her silky white hair, her back bent by the weight of time and life, sat quietly on a rickety cot in the cramped kitchen. The aroma of spices wafting from the lentil pot, the clatter of knives and chopping boards as her daughter-in-law prepared dinner, and the laughter of her son and wife echoing from the living room all blended into a familiar image of an ancestral home passed down through generations. She had spent almost her entire life here, watching generations grow and mature.

Now, at nearly eighty, she lives with her eldest son and his wife, Rajiv and Pooja, and two grandchildren.

Since moving in with her son, Ms. Shanta Devi’s life hasn’t been the same. Rajiv was gentle but very frail, always listening to his wife. Pooja is a shrewd and resourceful woman, but also somewhat practical and sophisticated. Shanta Devi never complains. She feels blessed to have children and a place to lean on in her old age. She tells herself to live a simple life, not to disturb her children and grandchildren.

The kitchen is the place she loves most. The rickety cot she lays on every afternoon, where she falls asleep after a long day. It’s like a close friend; it’s the only place in the noisy house where she feels a little alone.

One morning, while Shanta Devi was sunbathing in the courtyard, Pooja came into the kitchen and looked at the rope bed with irritation:

“Mom, this bed is too cramped here. The kitchen looks dirty. And it’s old, too. Let’s move it and make the kitchen bigger.” – her voice wasn’t one of seeking advice, but one of declaring.

Shanta Devi paused. Her thin hand, holding the tea cup, suddenly trembled. She glanced at Pooja, her eyes hesitant, wanting to say something, but then she suppressed her words.

“Yes, do whatever you feel is right,” she replied in a voice as soft as the wind.

That afternoon, the cot was moved to the veranda. The once cozy corner of the kitchen suddenly became strangely cold. Mrs. Shanta Devi temporarily moved into the small storage room next to the kitchen, which was filled with boxes of old things, and cobwebs hung from the ceiling.

She didn’t complain, just remained silent. Every time she cooked, she would still diligently cook, then quickly retire to her little corner, leaving the dining table for her children and grandchildren. Rajiv glanced at her a few times, his eyes filled with pity, but when he saw his wife frown, he turned away.

A week later, early on a Sunday morning, the doorbell rang repeatedly.

Pooja opened the door and saw a man in a black suit, glasses, and holding a briefcase:

“Excuse me, I’m lawyer Vikram Mehta—the legal representative of Mr. Prakash Sharma, Ms. Shanta Devi’s biological brother.”

Pooja was stunned: “By blood? But… my mother said he passed away a long time ago…”

The lawyer said softly:
“He passed away last week in Sydney, Australia. Before his death, he left a will. Accordingly, all his assets, including three houses and a large farm, estimated to be worth 23 crore rupees, were transferred to his biological sister, Ms. Shanta Devi.”

The weather seemed to freeze. Rajiv’s glass fell from his hand. Both nephews were stunned. Pooja’s mouth dropped, her face turning pale.

The lawyer continued:

“We contacted her by post and phone, but received no response. When we inquired, we learned that she was at this address, and she wasn’t being properly cared for.”

The lawyer’s gaze drifted to the confused faces of the entire family.

That afternoon, the entire family quietly entered the storage room – where Shanta Devi was knitting for her grandson.

Pooja said softly:

Mom… I’m sorry about the bed. Why don’t you come in and lie down, I’ll clean it up for you.”

Shanta Devi looked up, her eyes calm and deep. She neither asked about the property nor apologized. Just a light-hearted sentence:

“The house doesn’t have to be big, there just needs to be space for each other…”

The story of the old mother being pushed out of the kitchen and then suddenly becoming the heir to a vast estate spread rapidly throughout the Jaipur neighborhood. But Shanta Devi didn’t care. She didn’t need money, but a small place in her children’s hearts—a place she once felt she no longer had.