Meera read it. It was a silly tale about a squirrel who was afraid of heights. At the bottom, a teacher had scrawled, “Lovely imagination!” And below that, her mother had added: “She will be a writer one day. I will save money for her computer classes.”

There was no note. No "I love you." Just a receipt showing her mother had paid a courier 150 rupees—almost an hour's wage—to send a broken charger and a memory.

A long pause. Then, a wet laugh. “I knew he would, baby.”