There comes a point in every life when love alone is no longer enough to carry every burden.
For Appa, that season arrived quietly.
He had spent decades believing that it was his responsibility to provide for everyone around him—not only his wife and three daughters, but also grandparents, siblings, relatives, neighbours, friends, and anyone who reached out for help. To him, saying “no” was almost impossible.
He carried families on shoulders that were meant to carry only one.
Growing up, I admired that generosity.
As I became older, I questioned it.
That became one of the biggest differences between us.
I often told him that life was not meant to be lived only for obligations. A person deserved to breathe, to rest, to enjoy the fruits of their own labour. There had to be limits.
He would smile.
Then continue doing exactly what he had always done.
He dreamed of leaving something behind for every daughter.
A home.
A little security.
A little more comfort than he himself had ever known.
I understood the dream.
Every parent carries it.
But I wished he had understood something else—that he had already succeeded.
He had given us what mattered most.
Education.
Character.
Confidence.
Independence.
Those gifts cannot be taken away by financial storms.
He often felt sorry for me.
My own financial life had become difficult because of decisions made within my marriage. Those losses hurt him deeply. He worried that I had sacrificed too much.
We disagreed often.
He was unhappy with some of my choices, especially regarding my husband. I stood beside my husband because that is what I believed marriage required. Appa struggled to accept that.
Those conversations were never easy.
Sometimes they ended in silence.
Sometimes in arguments.
But never once in the absence of love.
That was our strange language.
We argued because we both cared fiercely.
Even during our hardest disagreements, I never doubted that I was loved.
And I hope he never doubted that I loved him.
Today, looking back, I realize something I could not fully understand then.
He wasn’t chasing wealth.
He was chasing security for the people he loved.
He never forgot what it meant to have nothing.
Perhaps that is why he kept working long after enough had become enough.
Perhaps that is why he never really rested.
When I became a mother myself, I finally understood the impossible arithmetic parents perform.
How much can I give?
How much more can I do?
What if this isn’t enough?
The difference between Appa and most parents was simple.
He never stopped asking those questions.
Even when everyone around him already believed he had done more than enough.
Looking back now, I don’t wish he had earned more.
I wish he had rested more.
I wish he had believed that the greatest inheritance he had already given us was not land, jewellery, or money.
It was the way he loved us.
And that inheritance can never be lost.