Mystic Story: Parents Are My World

If you could un-invent something, what would it be?

“The body that gives shelter in childhood is a sacred debt.
Service to those who gave you life is not bondage;
it is a form of yoga done without words.”
— Bhagavad Gita,

My parents are my world.
I need to visit them not because they need money, but because my presence is enough for me. Their happiness is simple: they want to know whether I can feed myself, stand on my own, and live without falling apart. Everything beyond that is a blessing  taking them out for a small treat, just as they once did for me when I was a child.

Sometimes I sit quietly and wonder:
Is this what parents do for their children forever?

And when children become adults, do they still return to their parents?
Or do they shrink their world until it surrounds only their own family?

This question unsettles me.
I am a single person. My life is simple.
Yet staying away from my parents feels unnatural—like breathing through borrowed lungs.

The moment that changed everything was when I watched my father take his last breath.
There was no drama.
No announcement.
Just silence.

What remained was an empty shell.
That was death  nothing mystical, nothing romantic. Just absence.
And then I saw something darker.
His side of the family was happy. Relieved. Smiling.
As if a burden had finally been lifted.
I was happy too  but for a different reason.
I was happy that I would never have to see their faces again.
No more forced rituals. No more hollow concern. No more pretending.
I do not wish them harm.
I only wish for distance.

What I want now is peace  with myself.
If I could un-invent something, it would be this idea that loyalty lasts forever, that family always means love, or that death suddenly makes people noble. It doesn’t.
What remains true is quieter:

Parents love without keeping score.
Children remember too late.
And the world moves on quickly sometimes cruelly.
I choose a smaller world.
A cleaner one.
One where peace is not negotiated.

On Death and Indifference
“For the one who dies, the body is abandoned;
for the world, the moment passes.
Grief belongs to the attached,
but the Self continues. unnoticed, untouched.”
Bhagavad Gita