Lola: A World Within.

15March2024

I was born into a modest, warmhearted family that seemed to move at a slower rhythm than the world outside. There were four of us children: two elder brothers, a sister named Poppy, and me, the youngest. Over the years I collected a handful of nicknamesTommy, Toms, even Lil Tom when Dad tried to turn my name into something softer, like a summer breeze. He loved calling me Lil Tom, as if the syllables themselves were a gentle lullaby, and I begged everyone to use it, just as he did.

My parents were ordinary folk, the kind who make ordinary life feel special. Mum sold groceries at the local market, Mums shop in York, while Dad was a site manager at the car factory down the road. Their lives were simple but steady, a quiet partnership where loud words were rare but the steady, dependable warmth was plentiful.

Dad would return home smelling of engine oil, wind, and the road. He always carried a few bags: jars of pickles from neighbours who couldnt pay cash, sacks of potatoes, even an overripe watermelon hed somehow manage to haul in at the most inconvenient hour. He never walked past a plea for help without stopping.

Mum handled the household finances. Her world was one of order, counting, and carefulness. She never wasted a penny, yet when it came to books, lessons, or club fees she gave without a second thought. On herself and Dad she tightened the belt; on us she eased it. Every Friday, as if by ritual, she would sit before the telly, pull out a box of yarn and begin mending our clothes, stitching not just fabric but also the quiet patience that held us together. She was gentle, a little roundbodied, with thick dark hair always pulled into a tight bun. I never once heard her argue with Dad. They could talk for hours, quietly, as if they shared a private little world that only they understood.

Dads conversations were always brief.
Alright, kids, everything good? hed ask, tapping each of us on the head in turn. With me, hed scoop me up and toss me gently into the air so that, for a heartbeat, I saw the world from above. Those were my favourite moments, the ones that made me think our family was some pictureperfect storybook.

At school I was a different creature: loud, bright, and full of feeling. Poetry came easily, and by the time I reached Year5 I knew I wanted the stage. I told Mum about my dream of drama school and she nearly spilled her tea. Dad chuckled, Whats the matter, Lil Tom? Give it a go. So I pursued itperformances at festivals, writing little scripts for birthday parties, penning verses for friends. One day I decided to write a tiny book: a simple tale of a girl searching for herself.

I hesitated up to the last page, wondering if anyone should read it. I wrote it in secret, late at night between chores, each fragment feeling too personal, too rough to be called a book. I intended to show it only to my best friend, Lucy. When she finished it, she blurted out, I want to give a copy of this to every woman who comes to my birthday party. I stared, thinking shed misheard me.

What book? Are you serious? Those are just drafts.

Lucy tilted her head, smiled softly, and said, Tom, youve given me years of friendship, poured your heart into it. This year I want to share your words as my thankyou. I can make it happen. Her words knocked me off balance. For two days I argued with myself, insisting it was a foolish idea, but Lucy had already found a designer, a printer, and was pushing it forward.

Let it see the light, she said. Everyone will love it.

And it did. The book flew off the shelves because it was honest, alive, unadorned. Readers recognized their own fears, hopes, and truths they usually kept hidden. It became a popular gift, and I felt a surge of confidence to write something deeperabout family, roots, the people who made me who I am.

That decision opened a door I hadnt expected. I needed to speak with Mum and Dad about their past, dates, stories. I called Mum, and she answered in a hesitant tone.

Dad isnt here, she said. Hes away on business.

I was surprised; Mum usually knew where Dad was. I called Dad straight away; his voice was cheerfully familiar.

Hey, Tom! Im at Grans, fixing the fence.

Why hadnt Mum mentioned that? As I drove, I sensed there was more than a pause in her voice. When I stepped into the house, Mum was in the kitchen. She looked at me, then quietly said, Your father and I have gone our separate ways it happens.

The two people I had held up inside as an ideal cracked open. My brothers and sister had known for years, but they kept quiet because I had just become a mother myself. We wanted to protect you, theyd said. Protect me from my own family?

I drove to Dads place, demanding answers. He stared at the floor, saying little. Mum remained silent, until one afternoon when she finally broke down:

What made you think we lived happily, Tom? You were a childyou didnt see everything. We stopped talking weeks ago. He never knew how to love. He never learned it.

She added, He told me himself.

Something inside me shattered. I stopped answering Dads calls. I stopped thinking about the book. I stopped being myself.

When Lucy suggested a retreat in India, I balked at first. Are you serious? Now? I cant. I rattled off a list of excuses. That evening, after telling my husband about the conversation, he smiled and said, Go. You need this. I tried to argue, but he gently interrupted, Tom, go. Well manage. And I went.

The retreat was led by a serene woman who asked us to call her Jaya Shanti. Her teacher had given her that nameJaya meaning victory, Shanti meaning peace. She embodied the meaning: a victor of inner turmoil seeking peace. She radiated calm, never saying no, not out of submission but from acceptance.

We visited the Karni Mata temple, known locally as the Temple of Rats, home to hundreds of sacred rats revered as ancestors souls. While many of us winced, Jaya crouched, feeding them grain from her palm and whispering, Life doesnt always appear as we expect, but it is life nonetheless. She delighted in the sun, a leaf, a blade of grass, the shade of a palm, the uneven curve of cloudsliving truly here and now, not as a slogan but as breath.

One evening, after meditation, the sky turned a thick, humid orange as the sun seemed to melt on the horizon. Jaya suggested we sit in silence on the roof of the ashram. Everyone else retired to their rooms; I stayed. Watching the sunset, a strange mix of loneliness and melancholy settled within me.

Jaya sat beside me, gazing outward. She asked nothing, merely being present. When I exhaled heavily, she turned to me and said, Theres tension in your quiet, Tom.

I smirked, Im always like this. My mind never stops.

She replied gently, No. Today youre not thinking. Today youre hiding.

She continued, Sometimes people keep quiet not because they dont want to speak, but because theyre afraid to hear their own truth. Her words cut deep. I turned my face away, hoping she wouldnt see the tremor in my lips. Yet she pressed on, as if reading my thoughts:

When a woman hides the truth, she first hides it from herself. The heart, however, always knows. Its restless now, like a fledgling searching for a nest.

She paused, then asked, Where does this fledgling come from, Tom? Where does this anxiety spring? She looked straight into my heart, not just my eyes. That was Jayas giftshe guided to truth not by questions, but by presence. I poured out everything, every hidden fragment. She listened, then said, You love your parents deeply and you wanted to save them from parting. But children dont rescue parents. Children love, then let go. Youve taken on a burden that isnt yours. It isnt yours to carry, Tom. You cannot keep them together, and you need not try.

Tears spilled. She brushed my hand and added, You are a son, not a judge, not a mediator, not a therapist. Remember that. Return to that place, and life will feel lighter. For the first time in months I truly exhaled.

When I got home, the first thing I did was call Dad.

Dad, Im sorry. I love you. Can you hear me? I love you.

Silence followed, then his voice broke, Ive been waiting, Tom waiting for you to call

Later that night I visited Mum. We sat at the kitchen table until the early hours, talking as if we were two adults, not mother and son. She was no longer just Mum; she was a woman with her own story, her own pains, her own choices, her own freedom.

A few days later I opened my laptop and began a new manuscriptnot about an ideal family, but about a living one. About love in its many shades, about the road that winds as it may, about memory, acceptance, and the truth that light isnt where everythings perfect, but where everything is honest.

I now understand that writing this time isnt the work of a little girl dreaming of fairytale endings. Its the work of a man who has finally found his own peace inside.

**Lesson:** I cannot carry the weight of others happiness, but I can honor my own truth and let love be enough.