If my mother was the center of everything…
then my father was the one holding it all together.
He wasn't loud like her.
He was friendly, funny in his own way…
but mostly quiet.
An introvert, I think.
But with people he cared about,
he became different.
More open.
More expressive.
At home, he was always there—
not in a noticeable way…
but in a constant one.
He was the one who took care of things
before anyone even asked.
Household chores, small responsibilities,
things that needed to be done—
he just did them.
Like it was nothing.
Like it was normal.
Mornings were his responsibility too.
Getting us ready,
making sure we reached the school bus on time…
and only after that,
he would leave for his own work.
He had his own business.
Event management.
I didn't understand much about it back then—
I just knew he worked hard.
And somehow, he always managed everything.
When I was younger,
I didn't fully understand my mother's condition.
People around me had their own assumptions.
Some thought it was because of polio.
Even my school bus driver believed that.
And I…
I never really corrected anyone.
Not because I was hiding it—
but because, in the end,
the reason didn't change anything.
My mother was handicapped.
And that was simply a part of our life.
Something constant.
Something we lived with every day.
Me and my brother went to different schools.
Different routines, different timings…
but the same home to come back to.
The same life, just seen from slightly different paths.
Looking back now,
I realize something I didn't notice then.
My mother was the storm—
unpredictable, loud, full of emotion.
And my father…
he was the balance.
The quiet that made everything else possible.