The Last Momo - Short Story

The sky outside looked like a beautiful painting - pink, orange, and a little cloudy. Inside their one-room home, the air smelled of burnt garlic and damp walls. Riya stood barefoot on the cold kitchen floor, her small fingers clumsily folding momos. 

The dough stuck slightly to her nails, and the warm potato-cabbage filling fogged her glasses every time she leaned in.

They didn’t make momos often.

Only when Maa had some extra cash left from the Seth’s house. Maa worked as a househelp, scrubbing floors and washing dishes in rich homes. These houses smelled like lavender and lemons, unlike their own, where the strongest scent was haldi and garlic.

But today was special. It was Baba’s birthday.

Not that he cared for it. He always brushed it off, saying, “I’m too old for candles and nonsense.” Still, Maa had whispered to Riya earlier that morning, “We’ll make momos today. He smiled when I mentioned them last week.”

Riya’s heart had done a quiet little leap. She hadn’t tasted momos in months.

She looked down at the bowl. “Fourteen,” she counted.

“Make them smaller,” Maa said, shaping one herself. “So it feels like more.”

Riya nodded. “I know.”

And she did.

They always made food stretch. That was a skill passed down through generations — how to make too little feel like enough.

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By 8:30 p.m., the steel plates were laid out in their usual circle on the floor. Baba sat cross-legged, wiping sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve. Arjun was bouncing on his heels, and Shubham kept poking the plate with his spoon, asking, “Is it ready yet?”

Sora AI

Riya sat opposite the momos, steam still rising from the banana leaf they were placed. Maa had borrowed the leaf from the neighbor’s backyard because it made the food feel more festive. The momos looked plump and imperfect, some folded neatly, others a little too thick at the edges. But to Riya, they were beautiful.

She could already taste them in her mouth. Oh, the slight tang of the chili garlic, the softness of the dough, the warmth spreading down her belly.

“Let Baba take first,” Maa instructed, passing him a plate. Four momos for him.

Then it was Arjun’s turn — two for him. Shubham, being the youngest, grabbed one with his bare hands.

“Don’t eat like that!” Maa scolded, but gave him another anyway. Then one more, because “He won’t sleep unless he’s full.”

Riya watched the count fall. Four. Two. Three. That was nine. Five left.

She hesitated, her tiny fingers hovering near the banana leaf. “Here,” Maa handed her a plate. “Take yours.”

Riya took two. Slowly. Even though her eyes lingered on the third. Then she passed the last three to Maa.

“I’m not that hungry,” she said softly, folding her legs.

There was a pause.

Just as Maa was about to take her share, Arjun piped up, “Maa, can I have another one? Please?” Without waiting for a reply, he reached over and took one from the plate meant for Maa.

Riya didn’t stop him. Maa didn’t either. Now, only two were left.

Maa looked at Riya’s plate — just two momos, cooling fast.

Then back at her own — also two.

She didn’t say anything. But in that silence, Riya heard everything.

They all ate. Baba with his usual gruff satisfaction, Shubham noisily, and Arjun stuffing his third momo with messy pride.

Riya ate hers slowly, chewing more than necessary, hoping the fullness would last longer.

They were perfect. And they were not enough.

Later that night, the floor was clean, and the tiffins for the next morning were packed. Baba’s snores echoed against the tin roof. Arjun and Shubham were asleep, their arms and legs tangled like wild vines on the mattress.

Riya sat near the window, quietly nibbling on the crust of a leftover roti she had saved from lunch. She wasn't hungry, she told herself.

But in her mind, she was still tasting the momos, remembering the way the dough had softened against her tongue, the tiny burst of chili. She had craved more. But craving was a luxury she had taught herself to ignore.

Being the eldest daughter meant many things.

It meant skipping the last piece of fruit. It meant giving up the sweeter tea, the warmer blanket, the cleaner glass of water. It meant understanding, before anyone explained. It meant noticing everything, and still being invisible.

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The next evening, while sweeping the floor, she found half a Dairy Milk wrapper tucked into Arjun’s school bag.

“Where’s the other half?” she asked.

“I gave it to my friend,” he shrugged. “You want some?”

Before she could say anything, he fished out a smaller piece — warm and melted slightly, but still a treasure.

She opened her mouth to say no — the polite no, the habitual no.

But then she thought of the momos.

And this time, she said yes.

And took the bigger piece.

Because sometimes, eldest daughters deserve the last bite too.

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Have you ever said “I’m not hungry” just so someone else could have the last bite? Was it love, habit, or quiet sacrifice?

Share your thoughts with me in the comments section.

This post is a part of the Blogchatter Food Fest.