The Cup of Tea in Between

The day began before the alarm, the way most of days do.

There was work to finish and children who needed to be in different places at different times. She drove, dropped off, drove back, and picked up again, before the working hours started. Between meetings and school gates, she made breakfast, packed lunch, and somewhere in the afternoon began thinking about dinner.

Today her legs ached. Yesterday it was her head. Some days she forgot something important, a form, a call, a name, and felt the small sting of it. But she had learned not to let one forgotten thing become a verdict on the whole day.

Because every day, in the middle of everything, she found ten quiet minutes for tea.

Sometimes it was green, pale and clean, the kind that made her feel rejuvenated. Sometimes it was flavored, a little cinnamon or orange, or a small candle. She held the cup in both hands, let the steam touch her face, and breathed.

In those ten minutes, nobody needed anything from her.

Then dinner came, loud and warm. Plates clinked, someone told a school story, someone laughed with their mouth full. She watched them and felt a quiet gratitude rise, not because life was easy, but because it was hers.

Later, in the stillness, she thought about how ordinary it all looked from the outside. Drop-offs. Dishes. Deadlines.

But she knew better. Every ordinary day was a page, and every cup of tea was a comma, a small pause that let the next sentence breathe.

She wasn't waiting for her story to begin.

She was already writing it, one mundane, beautiful day at a time. Its me and I will continue tomorrow with another story.

Tanushree