Thirty-one. That strange age where no one claps anymore when you cut your cake but your back does when you sit for too long. I turned thirty-one in Budapest. Not in some grand sweeping way. Just with my parents beside me. Walking slowly across bridges. Trying to figure out tram routes. And somehow, that felt like more than enough.
There was no cake with sparklers. No loud celebrations. No dramatic self-reflection ritual. Just the city. The breeze. My parents. And a quiet knowing in my chest that I wouldn’t forget this one. Not for what we did, but for how we were.
Soft. Silly. Slow. Together.
We didn’t do much. And that was the whole point.
We walked. A lot.
We crossed bridges without talking.
We argued about jackets. Shared dessert. Looked at buildings longer than necessary while Appa kept trying to convert forints in his head with increasing drama.
And when the Parliament lit up, Appa’s face did too. He pointed it out like a child spotting fireworks, and in that soft flash of light, I saw so much of who he’s always been.
I had also booked something small for that morning. A little plan I kept mostly to myself. Nothing elaborate. Just a photoshoot. Our first one, actually. With a real photographer, not a timer propped against a water bottle. So that I could stop trying to capture everything and simply be in it. On my birthday. In this city. With them.
The three of us were awkward at first, trying to act natural. But somewhere between clicks and inside jokes, it stopped being about posing. It just became us. The way we are. The way we’ve always been.
Every now and then, something would pause in the middle of all the movement. A breath. A glance. A small act of love so old, it didn’t even announce itself.
Like when Amma reached out on the tram and casually checked if I needed my hair to be plaited.
Or when Appa offered to carry the tiniest bag. The one that weighed nothing. But still somehow, in his hands, whispered, “you don’t have to do everything alone.”
There was this one moment on that same tram where Amma tucked my hair behind my ear. Exactly the way she used to, when I was in school. I smiled, but inside, something cracked open a little.
Because I’m thirty-one. I’ve lived by myself for years. I make my own doctor’s appointments. I re-fill salt before it runs out. I own an IKEA garlic press. I have very strong opinions about laundry detergent.
But in that moment, I was still hers. Still the same girl who wanted her dosa with sugar and ghee mixed in the right proportion (I still do). Still the child they raised. Even in a life they don’t fully recognize yet.
There’s something surreal about watching your parents inside the world you’ve built. Not just as visitors. But as quiet witnesses. To your fridge magnets. Your favorite bakery. Your commute. Your laundry habits. The way you slice cucumbers. The way you check the weather without trusting it. The weird way your life has shaped itself far away from them.
And yet, they slot themselves in like they’ve always belonged. Amma folds your blanket with that same flick of the wrist. Appa double-checks if the door is locked even though it’s Europe.
It’s funny. And overwhelming. And sacred in a way that catches you off guard.
Because they’re seeing you. Not just as their daughter. But as someone who’s slowly shaping her life. And they’re still showing up the way they always have. Not needing to understand everything. Just choosing to be there.
At thirty-one, I still don’t know if I’m doing life right.
But I do know this and have a handful of small certainties I hold close.
A mother who still checks if I need my hair tied.
A father who still carries my lightest of bags like it’s his life’s purpose.
A string of paprika that may or may not survive airport security.
A handful of photos where we forgot to pose and remembered how to be.
And a city that lent us its bridges so we could feel, just for a while, like home is portable.
And, THAT, is more than enough. 🧿❤️
Testimony to happyness. 
You must be logged in to post a comment.