Priya was only 25 years old when her husband departed.
He left to work in another country and never got in touch with her again.
Priya sobbed a lot. But she made porridge for her mother-in-law with love, even though she was crying.
Her mother-in-law, Mrs. Amma, had a stroke. She was bedridden and needed Priya for everything.
Everyone told her to go back to her family and start over.
Priya, on the other hand, just smiled charmingly.
Amma had treated her like a daughter ever since she got married.
Amma stayed with Priya all night once when she was really sick, checking her medicine and warm water.
Whenever
“I’m still here, beta.”
Priya stayed, though.
Every day, she cooked, cleaned, washed, assisted Amma with her physical treatment, and fed her.
When it was cold outside and Amma was shivering, Priya rubbed warm oil on her and covered her limbs so she could sleep well.
Priya made her favorite porridge and fed it to her spoon by spoon, even though she was tired.
Amma glanced at her with a silent thank you that was too deep for words.
Twenty years went by.
Priya’s hair started to turn gray.
People in the neighborhood whispered their admiration:
“Who
Some guys tried to win her over.
She shook her head slowly.
“I can’t leave until Amma is dead.”
One day, Amma’s health started to get worse.
She called Priya, took her hand with shaking fingers, and said in a low voice,
“Thank you, my child…” But I never told you this.
Priya leaned in closer and held her breath.
Amma spoke in a hushed voice:
“When your spouse asked me to sign the paperwork for divorce, he did so.
I said no. He left in a hurry.
He had an accident a few years ago.
He died.
They sent his ashes from another country… I kept them under the altar.
Priya’s
Then Amma said:
“The deed to the land is in the closet.” You now own it.
“I never had any daughters, but you have always been mine.”
Amma died quietly.
Everyone in the village came to the funeral to say farewell.
When they saw Priya kneeling next to the coffin, everyone cried. She was so sad that it came from the bottom of her heart.
A few days later, Priya unlocked the cupboard.
She also found a savings account with more than two million rupees in it.
Amma had been saving in secret for years:
Priya’s name was on everything: renting out the back of the farm, selling a little vegetable patch, and saving money from her pension.
Priya fixed up the house on the first anniversary of Amma’s death.
In the front yard, she opened a tiny store and named it:
“Amma’s Oatmeal House.”
Customers paid what they could.
Some people didn’t pay anything at all.
Priya grinned when asked why she didn’t charge more:
“Amma lived on the oats I made for her.
I make a living by selling it and assisting others.
“That’s more than enough.”
The place was full that afternoon.
A cold, old woman was carefully eating the hot porridge in a corner.
She looked up and said,
“My child, this porridge tastes great.” It makes me feel good within.
Tears filled Priya’s eyes. She thought of Amma.
She leaned in a little and said in a low voice,
“Madam… I made it with all the love I used to get.
