Two Weeks Without My Daughter

By Deshna Bhansali

On a quiet Saturday morning, I held my three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Avira, a little tighter than usual. We were on our way to the airport—she was flying to India with her papa for her summer break, and I had decided to stay back in Bangkok for work.

I smiled for her, kissed her forehead, and tucked her little doll into her backpack—pretending to be strong. But inside, I was falling apart. I went to the airport to drop them off, and as I waved goodbye and saw her little frame disappear through the boarding gate with her father, a knot formed in my stomach. The moment she was out of sight, a part of me felt hollow.

That was the beginning of one of the most emotionally intense weeks of my motherhood.

Questioning myself

The house—once filled with giggles, questions, mess, and warmth—was suddenly silent. Deafeningly so. I walked into her room, sat on her tiny bed, and the tears came. Uncontrollable, guilt-ridden tears. How could I let her go? What kind of mother stays behind? Was I selfish for staying back just because I had work to finish? My brain didn’t stop. Should I have flown with her? Should I still go?

What made it worse was the wave of unsolicited opinions. Messages from well-meaning relatives, and not-so-well-meaning ones, started flooding in:

“She’s too young to be without you.”
“A child needs her mother the most.”
“How can you stay back while she goes away?”

Some were gentle, some judgmental. But every word added to the storm inside me. And the guilt—oh, the guilt. It wrapped around me like a thick, suffocating blanket. I couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t tell whether I’d made a rational decision or an unforgivable mistake.

Saturday was a blur of tears, doubt, and emotional self-torture. I replayed every moment leading to the decision: rationalizing, rethinking, regretting. Maybe my job can wait. Maybe I should take emergency leave. Maybe she’s crying right now and wondering why Mumma didn’t come.

But by Sunday evening, something softened inside me.

I finally sat down and asked myself honestly: What am I really punishing myself for? I didn’t send her away out of neglect. I stayed because I had an important work commitment I couldn’t cancel. If I flew the next weekend, half her trip would already be over. Would that help her, or just soothe my guilt?

That’s when the fog lifted, just a little.

Motherhood isn’t martyrdom

We’ve been raised to believe motherhood is martyrdom. That to be a "good mother" you must constantly sacrifice—your rest, your dreams, your career, your space. That guilt is a necessary part of loving your child. But slowly, I began to see how flawed that belief is.

Staying back that week didn’t mean I loved Avira any less. It simply meant I trusted that she was safe, loved, and well cared for, and that I too deserved space to breathe.

That week, something unexpected happened.

Avira was in India, surrounded by people who love her—her father and grandparents. She was bonding, learning, being pampered, hearing stories from a home I once called mine. And me? I was rediscovering pieces of myself that had gone quiet.

I joined swimming classes—something I always wanted to do but never found time for. I began sleeping better. I ate proper meals. I paused to just be. I made a skincare routine, started walking more, looked at my body in the mirror without rushing to get dressed.

Each night, I recorded a short video message for Avira—just to say hi, sing a rhyme, or show her a new flower I saw that day. I started planning little surprises for her return. I cleaned out her shelf, prepared her favorite book corner, and even began drafting plans for things I’d love to do with her once she was back.

In that quiet time, I began hearing my own voice again—the voice that isn’t just “Mumma” but Deshna. And it didn’t feel selfish. It felt grounding.

But then one night, around midnight, she called. In a soft, sleepy voice, she said, “Mumma, I’m missing you.”

That single sentence shattered me. My heart cracked wide open. I stayed awake for hours, feeling like I had made the wrong choice. The next day, I couldn’t concentrate. I cried in silence. That one moment, that one line, made everything come crashing down again.

But this time, I didn’t run for my suitcase. I didn’t spiral. I held myself together and reminded myself: this is life too. Distance doesn’t dilute love. Our bond is not broken by two weeks apart. It’s stronger because it’s built on trust, on presence, on everything we’ve already shared, and everything we’ll continue to share.

That moment taught me something profound—that space, when given with love, can help a mother heal and a child grow.

As mothers, we live under constant pressure, not just from society or family, but from within ourselves. We glorify sacrifice. We wear guilt like a badge. We’re praised for being selfless and judged the moment we choose our own joy, even for a minute.

Rewriting the story

It’s time to rewrite that story. Sometimes, space is a gift. For the child. For the mother. For the family. It doesn’t make us cold, selfish, or detached. It makes us human. It teaches children that love is safe, even when it travels across borders. That they’re surrounded by more than one person’s love—mumma’s, papa’s, dada-dadi’s.

And none of this would’ve been possible if my husband, Nikhil, hadn’t stepped in with strength, calm, and kindness. He agreed to take her on this trip when I couldn't. He became her anchor, her comfort, her constant for those two weeks. And for that, I am deeply grateful. It’s easy to say “a mother can’t stay without her child”, but we rarely ask: why must she always be the only one carrying that load?

When Avira comes back, I know our hugs will last longer. Our stories will overflow. And I’ll be able to greet her, not with exhaustion or buried resentment, but with fresh energy, love, and presence.

These two weeks taught me something I wish more mothers were told: you don’t have to lose yourself to love your child. You can be both a loving mother and a woman with needs, dreams, and a name beyond "Mumma".

To every mother who has ever felt guilty for taking a breath, for choosing herself, for pausing just long enough to hear her own thoughts, I see you. I am you. And you are not alone.

About the Author

Deshna Bhansali is a finance professional and storyteller, originally from India and now building a life in Bangkok. With quiet grit and relentless effort, she’s created her own support system. Her daughter, Avira, is her joy and mirror—reflecting the strength and self-belief behind her journey.