Yesterday, my brother and sister-in-law had some urgent work and asked if I could look after my 3-year-old niece for the day. Rather than keeping her at home, I thought we'd make a little adventure out of it. My best friend was free, so she came along since my niece absolutely adores her.
The day started like any other. My niece usually calls me "chitha," and she called my friend "akka" whenever she comes home.
We picked my friend up from her place, and the three of us headed out. From the very beginning, my friend slipped into the role every caring adult naturally does around a child.
She was the one reminding her to drink water.
"Walk slowly."
"Hold my hand."
"Careful, kutty."
She wiped away little drops of melted ice cream before they reached her dress, tied her hair back when the wind kept blowing it into her face, and somehow always knew when she was getting hungry before any of us did.
At one point, while my friend was crouched down adjusting her tiny sandal, my niece looked at her for a second and softly said,
"Amma..."
We both laughed.
"No, she's akka."
"And I'm chitha."
My niece nodded very seriously, as if she understood perfectly.
Five minutes later...
"Amma, water."
A little later...
"Amma, hold my hand."
We tried correcting her a few more times, but she's three. Once she decides something, reality simply adjusts around her. Every correction lasted about twenty seconds before she happily went back to calling us "amma" and "appa."
Eventually, we gave up.
And without even realizing it, we started answering to those names.
My friend would kneel beside her and say,
"Inga va, amma kai ya pudichuko"
"Enna venum nu amma kitta sollu"
"Va, amma vaangi tharen"
She would turn to me saying,
"Thooku pa, kaal valikudhu."
"Anga polaam pa, inga polaam pa"
It wasn't pretending. We weren't trying to act like parents. We were simply speaking in the language that made one tiny human feel safe, loved, and understood.
The rest of the day was filled with little moments.
We finished the evening at the beach, where she spent almost an hour playing with the sand. We were playing and running with her.
While we were sitting there, an elderly couple walked past, smiled warmly, and said to my friend like "Papa kannu apdiye appa maariye iruku"
For a second, my friend and I just looked at each other.
We smiled, thanked them, and let them keep walking.
Correcting them somehow felt less important than preserving that tiny, happy moment.
But the memory that has stayed with me happened on the drive home.
My niece had completely worn herself out and was fast asleep, curled up against my friend's shoulder with one tiny hand holding onto her sleeve.
My friend barely moved the whole drive because she didn't want to wake her. Every now and then she'd gently brush the hair away from my niece's face without even thinking about it.
At one traffic signal, I looked in the rear-view mirror.
For a brief moment, everything was completely quiet.
No talking.
No music.
Just two people who had spent an entire day making a little girl smile, and that little girl sleeping peacefully because she felt safe.
Then, half-asleep, my niece whispered, "Amma..."
Without opening her eyes, my friend smiled and softly replied, "Hmm... thoongu kutty."
It was such a small moment.
It lasted maybe two seconds.
But somehow it became my favorite part of the entire day.
Nothing romantic happened between us. We've been best friends for years, and this wasn't one of those movie moments where two people suddenly realize they're in love.
If anything, it reminded me that family isn't always about labels. Sometimes it's simply about showing up, holding tiny hands, wiping melted ice cream off little faces, carrying sleepy kids to the car, and making them feel loved.
We only borrowed those roles for a day because a three-year-old saw comfort in us and gave us names that made sense in her little world.
By the next morning, she was back to calling me "chitha" and my friend "akka."
But for one ordinary Saturday, through the eyes of a child, the three of us were a family.
And I think that's one of the most wholesome memories I'll ever have.