Every summer, her mother bought too many mangoes.

They filled the fruit bowl, then the steel plate on the counter, then the bottom shelf of the fridge. If a neighbour visited, Amma sent two home in a newspaper bag. If her daughter came on Sunday, she cut one before lunch and another after, insisting that the second was sweeter.

This year there were none.

“Mango season is nearly over,” her mother said when asked. “The good ones are expensive.”

Her daughter accepted that. She had work, school pickups, a leaking tap and a child who had decided that all fruit except grapes was suspicious. There was always another thing to think about.

On her next visit, she went to the market with Amma. At the fruit stall, her mother stopped to inspect the mangoes, pressing each one gently with her thumb. Then she asked the price and walked away.

“You used to buy half a dozen,” her daughter said.

“Who will eat them?”

“You will.”

Her mother laughed. “I don’t need so many.”

At home, her daughter helped clear the dining table. Beneath a stack of bills she found a small notebook with the household expenses written in her mother’s careful handwriting. Milk. Vegetables. Gas. Electricity. Medicine.

Beside the month’s entry for mangoes, there was a line crossed out. The amount was small, but she noticed the words beside it: for Anu’s train ticket.

Her mother had been saving little amounts to visit her granddaughter in another city. She had stopped buying mangoes one or two at a time, telling herself she could eat them when she visited.

“You could have told me,” her daughter said.

“Told you what? That I want to come see the child?” Amma looked genuinely puzzled. “You’re already spending so much on everything.”

Her daughter wanted to explain that the ticket wasn’t the problem. That her mother did not have to turn every small wish into a budget line. But the words came out wrong, too sharp.

“Next time, just tell me you want mangoes.”

Amma smiled. “Then buy them when they’re cheap.”

On the way home, her daughter stopped at the fruit stall and bought four. They were not the best ones; one had a soft patch near the stem. She put them in a cloth bag and carried them upstairs.

Her mother cut one after dinner. She gave the larger half to her daughter and ate the smaller half with a spoon over the sink, juice running down her wrist.

“Still sweet,” she said.

Her daughter didn’t mention the notebook again. She booked the train ticket that night.

If this story stayed with you…

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