No Fairy Godmother, Just My Mother

by Riddhi Bora, 17

I grew up in a home where breaking plates spoke louder than apologies, where the sentence "If it wasn’t for them, I would’ve left" echoed more often than goodnights.

I still remember being ten, biting into a cola-flavored popsicle when I first read the words: "Life isn’t fair. Wear a helmet." Back then, it felt like a joke. By sixteen, I understood the weight of that sentence.

The helmet, I realized, wasn’t for riding bikes — it was for surviving the blows life threw at you. The kind that comes when you watch your mother sacrifice her dreams so you might have a chance at yours. Watching my mother trade her ambitions for mine

scarred my cicatrix in ways I couldn’t fathom.

I grew up in—let’s just say—a pretty loud environment. Bickering wasn’t a surprise; it was the soundtrack of our evenings.

What was even more common was the crashing of cutlery, alcohol replacing apology.

And me? I was the elder daughter, whispering “It’s okay” to my younger brother while he

cried into my arms.

"Our home sweet home" was a radio that only played — clashing voices and slammed

doors.

Love was never compromised for us; our parents loved us, each in their own way.

However, the love between them felt fractured. Like cracks on a mudpot — broken yet

stubbornly holding together.

Their marriage often felt less like a sacred harmony and more like a business deal — a

contract upheld out of obligation, not affection.

At 17, I realized all those fairytales lied.

There was no fairy godmother waving wands, no seven dwarfs singing you home, no genie granting three wishes.

The clock struck twelve, and nothing changed — no gown, no escape, just the same

familiar chaos echoing through the walls.

But maybe the stories got one thing right — sometimes, magic does exist. Not in glitter or spells, but in learning to grow up. I realized sometimes you hold the magic in your

own hands — you don’t need a wand.

I saw that kind of magic in my mother. She handed me her ambitions like heirlooms —

quietly, without resentment and folded herself into the background so I could stand in the spotlight she chose to ignore.

There’s a particular kind of ache that comes from watching someone dim their own light so yours can shine brighter.

It’s humbling. It's haunting.

My mother had a whole PhD, job offers abroad, and the society said, “Cool, now go be

someone’s wife.”

Thanks to patriarchy, my mother’s degrees were tucked away — not on walls, but in drawers lined with bridal silks and family expectations.

She had the world on her CV, but hey who needs that when you can have a lifetime of brewing the perfect elaichi walli chai for distant relatives who forget your name.

Something killed me inside, watching her by the stove, measuring sugar into fine china cups while her dreams sat folded in drawers.

I realized as i grew old, some people wore culture like Armour — not to protect heritage, but to justify harm.

They didn’t uphold tradition. They weaponized it. They exploited it.

To silence dreams. To justify control.

“Put everything aside, your family comes first,” they told my mother — as if love was

proven through self-erasure.

Her dreams were folded away like bridal silk — but mine won’t be hidden in drawers. I carry her ambitions with me, unfolding them under the bright lights I’m chasing.

Maybe that’s what legacy really is — not castles or crowns, but the quiet rebellion of choosing a different ending.

She didn’t get her fairytale. So, I became the protagonist.

Rolling credits won’t say The End.

They’ll say:

To be continued.