Inheritance

By Nidha Ameen

There are houses I return to

that never learned the shape of my footsteps.

Rooms that cradle names

I was never meant to carry,

where love is practiced like tradition—

warm, generous, but never mine.

I sit at tables polished by years

I wasn’t invited.

Some children bring poems to class.

I brought silence and a woman

who smelled like turmeric and mothballs,

who clutched my hand

like it was a dying religion.

She was never called “mother” aloud.

Only in the way I survived.

There are wars that happen

in the quiet choosing of holidays.

One side offers lullabies

sung in my father’s ghost-voice.

The other, discipline dressed as love,

love dressed as duty.

I cannot mourn without trespassing.

I have known love that is generous

but conditional.

Addresses that refuse to be homes.

Families that embrace me

like a borrowed book

underlined, held close,

but never fully owned.

And still, I make space.

For everyone.

Always.

Even when the walls echo

with names I wasn’t given.

Even when my heart

feels like a guest

that's overstayed

Its welcome.

By Nidha Ameen