I opened my mouth to say something, but she was already wheeling her suitcase toward the door, not a backward glance.
When my mother heard that no one was looking after me, she bought the earliest train ticket she could find that same night and sat on a hard seat for eighteen straight hours to reach the hospital.
The moment she saw me lying in that bed, the incision from my C-section still seeping through the bandages, her eyes went red.
"Sweetheart, don't you worry. Mama's here. I'll take care of you and the baby."
And she meant every word.
During those days in the hospital, she fed the baby, changed diapers, and looked after me all at once.
Every time I needed the bathroom, she'd hold me steady with one arm while carefully lifting the IV bag with the other.
She was a small woman. Every time she raised that bag, she had to stand on her tiptoes and stretch her arm as high as it would go, terrified the blood might flow back into the line.
After discharge, the real recovery began.
Every morning before dawn, while I was still sleeping, my mother was already up making soup.
By the time the sun rose, she'd have the baby rocked back to sleep before heading out to buy groceries and cook.