“What should we eat?”

She knew the answer. She always knew.

“Whatever everyone wants.”

“Where should we go?”

“You decide.”

“Should we invite them?”

“If you want.”

It wasn’t that she had no opinions. She had plenty. She just knew everyone else’s first.

Her husband liked less spicy food. Her son wanted dosa. Her daughter didn’t like coriander. Her mother-in-law preferred lunch early. Her father wanted coffee after five.

After enough years, choosing became a kind of household background noise.

Then one Sunday they went out for lunch.

The waiter handed them four menus.

Her husband looked at her.

“What do you want?”

She looked at him.

“Anything.”

Her daughter laughed.

“No, seriously.”

“I’m serious.”

Her son leaned across the table.

“Amma. What do you want?”

She opened the menu. Closed it. Opened it again.

There were photographs of twenty-three dishes.

She suddenly realized she didn’t know.

Not because she didn’t like food. Because she had spent so long solving the question for everybody else that the question sounded unfamiliar when it was finally addressed to her.

“Lemon rice,” she said.

Everyone waited.

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“Just lemon rice?”

She smiled.

“And one masala dosa.”

Her husband looked surprised.

“You don’t even order that.”

“Apparently I do.”

They ordered both.

When the food arrived, her daughter stole a piece of dosa.

“You always do that,” Amma said.

“Because you always let me.”

“Not today.”

Her daughter put the piece back on her plate.

“Sorry.”

Amma laughed.

“Take it.”

They ate.

Nothing changed after that.

On Monday, someone still asked where the spare keys were. On Tuesday, her son asked what he should take for lunch. On Wednesday, her husband asked whether they should go out on Sunday.

She answered all three.

But the next Sunday, when someone asked, “What should we make?”

She said, “I’m thinking.”

Everyone waited.

She smiled.

“Give me five minutes.”

Read this when everyone needs something from you and you have forgotten to ask what you need.