In truth, I am a single mother. But I don't feel alone at all in

Host: The morning sun spilled across the rooftops, turning the city’s concrete edges into rivers of gold. A faint breeze carried the smell of fresh bread from the bakery below, mingling with the hum of traffic and the cries of children on their way to school.

Inside a small apartment with peeling paint and warm light, Jeeny sat on a sofa, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea. Her hair was loosely tied back, her eyes tired but soft — the kind of tiredness that comes from giving too much and still finding more to give. Across from her, Jack leaned against the window frame, a thin line of smoke curling from his cigarette, his grey eyes lost somewhere in the skyline.

The radio murmured a voice — Padma Lakshmi — reading her words in a soft, resonant tone:
"In truth, I am a single mother. But I don’t feel alone at all in parenting my daughter. Krishna has a whole other side of her family who loves her, too. And so Krishna is parented by me, but also by her grandmother and aunts and cousins and uncles and friends."

The words hung in the room like the aftertaste of something both sweet and heavy.

Jeeny: (quietly) That’s what love should sound like — shared, messy, alive.

Jack: (exhales smoke) Or dependent. Depends on how you look at it.

Jeeny: (looks at him, frowning slightly) Dependent? You really hear something beautiful like that and think of dependency?

Jack: (shrugs) It’s not cynicism, Jeeny. It’s math. Every time you rely on others, you add more chances for disappointment. More variables. You can’t control what other people do, or how long they stay.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Maybe that’s the point — that love isn’t supposed to be controlled.

Host: The light shifted as a cloud passed. The room dimmed, soft shadows falling across the floorboards. Jack’s face hardened under the shade, while Jeeny’s eyes caught the last trace of the sunlight like a small flame.

Jack: I’ve seen what happens when you lean too hard on others. My sister tried that — raising her son with “community support.” She ended up doing everything alone anyway. The friends disappeared when things got hard. The family stopped calling. It’s a romantic idea — the village raising a child — but in reality, it’s a myth.

Jeeny: (gently) Or maybe it just takes more courage than most people have — to ask, to receive, to keep reaching out even when the world grows quiet.

Jack: (snorts) Courage? I call it risk. Depending on people is like walking a tightrope with no net. You fall, you hit the ground.

Jeeny: (leans forward) But what’s the alternative, Jack? Living in a fortress of self-reliance? You’d rather be safe than loved?

Host: Her voice was low, but it struck him like a bell. He looked at her — really looked — as if the question had torn open a door he’d been keeping locked for years. The cigarette ash fell to the floor, unnoticed.

Jack: (softly) Safe doesn’t mean happy. It just means predictable.

Jeeny: (nods) And yet you cling to it like it’s a religion.

Jack: (half-smiles) Maybe it is. My own mother raised me alone. No help, no “village.” Just her. And she did fine.

Jeeny: (gently) “Fine” isn’t the same as “free.”

Jack: (pauses) She survived. That’s enough.

Jeeny: (quietly) But was she ever seen? Did anyone hold her when she broke down at night?

Host: The silence that followed was heavy — the kind of silence that carries a thousand unspoken memories. Jack’s jaw tightened, but his eyes softened, as though her words had found something inside him — a bruise he thought had long since healed.

Jeeny: (after a pause) What Padma said — it’s not just about having help. It’s about admitting that love is a network, not a line. That a child isn’t raised by one pair of hands, but by a web of hearts.

Jack: (skeptical) That sounds poetic, but people are unreliable.

Jeeny: So is life. That’s why we build circles, Jack. Because no one can carry the world alone.

Host: Outside, the sound of a motorbike drifted up from the street, followed by a child’s laughter echoing between the buildings. It filled the room like a fragile kind of music — one that refused to end.

Jack: You ever notice how people love to glorify community — until it actually requires them to give something up? Time, privacy, comfort. Everyone wants the feeling of belonging without the work.

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) You’re right. Community is exhausting. But so is loneliness. At least love gives you something back.

Jack: (grins faintly) You sound like you believe in some kind of cosmic barter system.

Jeeny: (shrugs) Maybe I do. I think what we give away — time, care, forgiveness — always returns somehow. Maybe not in the same form, but it circles back.

Host: A faint drizzle began outside, the drops whispering against the glass like distant footsteps. Jeeny rose, walked to the window, and watched the world below — the umbrella parade, the small chaos of ordinary life.

Jeeny: (softly) You know what I envy in that quote? Not just the love, but the trust. The willingness to let others help raise your child — to let them into the sacred space of parenting. That’s bravery.

Jack: (leans back) Or desperation disguised as faith.

Jeeny: (turns sharply) You think only desperation makes us reach out? Maybe it’s wisdom — the wisdom of knowing that the heart can’t hold everything alone.

Jack: (studying her) You really believe in collective love, don’t you?

Jeeny: (nodding) I do. Because I’ve seen it. My mother raised me that way. When she worked nights, my aunt watched me. When my father left, my uncle fixed the roof. When she cried, our neighbor made soup. That’s love — not romantic, not perfect — but steady.

Host: Her eyes glistened, though no tears fell. Jack’s gaze drifted away, his reflection faint in the window beside hers — two shapes framed by light and rain.

Jack: Maybe… maybe I’ve just never seen that kind of world. Where people stay.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe it’s still there. Just quieter. It survives in small gestures — the teacher who packs extra food for the kid who never eats lunch, the friend who stays through your worst days without asking why. That’s the village. It’s not gone, Jack. It’s just… tired of not being seen.

Jack: (voice low) So what are we supposed to do? Build it back?

Jeeny: Brick by brick. Story by story. Even this — talking about it — is a beginning.

Host: A long silence followed, but it was no longer the cold kind. It was warm, like soil after rain — ready for something to grow.

Jack: (after a while) Maybe Padma’s right, then. Maybe being a single parent doesn’t mean being alone. It just means learning how to let the world help you — even when it disappoints you.

Jeeny: (smiling) Exactly. It’s not about having everything. It’s about knowing that even when you fall, there’s a hand somewhere reaching out.

Jack: (half-smiles) You always make faith sound like common sense.

Jeeny: Maybe it is. Maybe it’s the oldest kind of sense there is.

Host: The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Light broke through the clouds, painting the room in gold once more. Jack crushed his cigarette, and for a moment, both of them simply watched the world glow — quiet, imperfect, alive.

Jeeny: (softly) You know what I think, Jack? Family isn’t a structure. It’s a rhythm. Different instruments, same song.

Jack: (nodding slowly) And parenting… maybe it’s just learning how to keep that song going — even when you’re the only one left singing.

Host: The morning opened wider now — the streets filling with light, the voices of children, the sound of a bus door closing. Jeeny set her cup down and smiled, a small, weary, radiant smile.

Jack looked at her — and for once, didn’t argue.

And as the sunlight caught the dust floating in the air, it looked — just for a heartbeat — like a constellation of tiny stars, forming their own quiet universe above the worn table between them.