Inna: Inna is tired today.
Her: Why?
Inna: Because Inna worked a lot.
Her: What is “worked”?
Inna: I went to office. I talked to many people. I solved problems.
Her (serious, sitting cross-legged): Did the problems cry?
Inna: No.
Her: Then why did you shout?
Inna: I didn’t shout. I was… firm.
Her: Firm like apple?
Inna: No. Firm like strong words.
Her: Why words need muscles?
(She leans forward. Inspection mode. Somewhere in my chest, a file opens.)
Her: I listen when you whisper stories.
(Silence. My theories clear their throats.)
Inna: Inna has responsibility.
Her: What is “respon-si-bility”?
Inna: It means many things depend on me.
Her: Like my doll depends on me?
Inna: Yes. Like that.
Her: Do you love your responsibility?
Inna: I… manage it.
Her: I love my doll. When she breaks, I fix her slow. You fix your things fast. Why?
(Somewhere, a schedule collapses.)
Inna: Inna doesn’t have time.
Her: Where does time go?
Inna: It finishes.
Her: Like cakes?
Inna: Yes. Like cakes.
Her (bright): Then why don’t you eat slowly?
(My productivity philosophy quietly resigns.)
Inna: Inna gets angry sometimes.
Her: I know.
Inna: You do?
Her: Your eyebrows become angry before you.
(She demonstrates. Perfectly.)
Inna: I don’t mean to.
Her: Anger comes first. Sorry comes later. Why sorry is slow?
(I search for an answer that doesn’t involve my childhood.)
Inna: Inna’s work is important.
Her: More important than me?
Inna: No. Of course not.
Her: Then why work gets your loud voice and I get your phone face?
(The phone on the table suddenly looks criminal.)
Inna: Inna thinks a lot.
Her: About what?
Inna: About future. About plans. About risks.
Her: I think about puddles. They don’t come tomorrow. They come now.
(A management review bursts into flames.)
Inna: Inna wants to build things.
Her: Why?
Inna: So people will remember.
Her (after thinking hard): I remember you without building.
(Everything I’ve ever chased quietly sits down.)
Inna: Inna tries to be good.
Her: Why “tries”?
Inna: Because it’s hard.
Her: It’s easy with me.
(She puts her head on my arm. No verdict. No gavel.)
Inna (softly): Inna is learning.
Her: Amma says learning never finishes.
Inna: Amma is right.
Her: I will ask again tomorrow.
(She smiles; the kind that promises no mercy.)
That night, when the house sleeps, I notice something unbearable and simple:
At work, I defend systems, processes, delays, causes.
At home, Amma absorbs the noise without naming it.
And a three-year-old, calling me Inna, dismantles everything with one tool.
Why?
No agenda.
No anger.
No PowerPoint.
Just truth;
asked softly enough
that all my normal ways
look… unnecessary.
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