He rented the flat above our shop.
Mother laughed watching us play tag between the aisles, smelling sweetly of chai garam. Father grunted stacking shelves.
When I was eighteen, Father died.
Mother wept into his shoulder.
My grades dropped. Mr Singh helped me through.
When I graduated medical school, he watched proudly, Mother again soaking his shoulder.
When he became ill, we cradled fragile hands, giving thanks for always being close.
He passed quietly asleep.
It wasn't until I cleared his flat, I found love letters from my Father.