I hurried upstairs to grab the laundry basket, hoping to finish one more task before my remote job swallowed the day in emails and video calls.

As I gathered the scattered clothes - this explains why my husband programs software instead of shooting hoops - I saw my phone screen glow. It was Mom. She is visiting my sister for several weeks.

"Are you OK. Send me a message you are OK," her WhatsApp note said.

The missing punctuation reflects both her non-native English and her worried nature. Most of all, it marks her changed world, one where I, her oldest child, now stand at the center without trying.

My mom once lived on her own

After Dad passed away in India nearly ten years ago, I refused to face the pain of an aging parent far away again, so I asked Mom to live with us.

The last time I shared a home with my parents was at age 17, before I left for college far across the country. Life then carried me overseas and finally to California with a family of my own.

As Mom and I grew close again, I struggled to watch my once-independent mother grow frail and reliant, a shift caused by age and the move to a new country and culture.

She still treated me the same way, asking questions that fit thirty years earlier: "Where are you going?" "Why are you skipping meals?" "What time did you return last night?" They stem from love, even when my irritation shows.

I treat my daughter the way Mom treats me

"I'm fine. I was walking when you called yesterday. I'll call later," I replied to Mom.

"We spoke yesterday afternoon," I told the phone. Only Siri listened.

While waiting for my work computer to start, laundry unfinished, I texted my daughter at college in New York.

"Good morning, my child. I miss you. How are you? Call today."

Lately I blame every slip on hormones, the ongoing middle-age surprise. Lost keys, forgotten names, missing words during explanations - all tied to hormones.

Two hours later, during a meeting about resolved code issues, the parallel struck me. I had done to my daughter exactly what Mom had done to me. I laughed, sure my colleagues blamed hormones too.

I am becoming my mother

My daughter teases me about it often. When my husband and I visited her recently, I noticed her slight frustration as she took the phone to fix our family photo, a trick I still cannot manage. "I do not miss Paati now," she said while returning the phone.

Already tall, she walks even faster in the city. I nearly jog to match her pace as she turns and grins, "Keep up, marathoner!" Was it only a decade ago that she clung to my leg around strangers?

During spring break at home, I planned a Costco trip. Mom reminded me four times to buy Pepto-Bismol. When I asked my daughter what she wanted, she said she would shop alone.

At dinner I made roti and dal while my daughter stood nearby chopping scallions for her protein salad and explaining nutrition facts in detail.

I watched her, captivated, just as Mom watches me when I warn about online tricks and that not every urgent WhatsApp message must be opened.

Folding laundry, I suddenly understood. I know every one of Mom's outfits, yet I could not identify my daughter's in a busy laundromat. Some days I want to freeze time - when Mom needs me less and my daughter needs me more. When Mom no longer asks me to choose her dinner outfit. When Mira lets me join her shopping. The feeling fades quickly. Thank you, hormones.

That night I texted my daughter again: "Hellooooooo." Without irony. It is simply how the world works. A mother needs her daughter. Who am I to argue?

My mom once lived on her own

I treat my daughter the way Mom treats me

I am becoming my mother

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