Priya's childhood was not filled with lullabies or warm embraces; it was filled with silence—heavy, suffocating silence. One evening, as the golden light of dusk slipped quietly through the window, little Priya stood near the kitchen door, clutching her small, worn-out doll. Her eyes were full of hope, the kind that only a child can carry. "Ma… will you sit with me today?" she asked softly, almost afraid of her own voice. Her mother did not turn. Without even looking at her, she replied sharply, "I am busy. Don't disturb me." Priya stood there for a moment, waiting, hoping perhaps her mother would change her mind. "Just five minutes, Ma… please?" she tried again, her voice trembling. But the answer came colder this time, "I said no." The words didn't just refuse her request—they rejected her existence.
Slowly, Priya stepped back, her tiny fingers tightening around the doll. She walked to a corner of the room and sat down, curling into herself as if trying to take up less space in a world that didn't seem to want her. "Everyone's mother plays with them…" she whispered to her doll, her lips quivering, "maybe I am not like others." She forced a faint smile, wiping her own tears with the back of her hand. "It's okay… I will be strong," she said, as if making a promise to herself. That evening, like many others, passed without affection—but it planted something deep inside her: a strength born from neglect, and a heart that would one day give love even after never receiving it.