It takes a village to raise a child.
What happens when the village is 8,000 miles away?

We moved to the US to build a better life for our son. What we didn't plan for was what we'd leave behind. The family. The grandparents who would pull him into their lap and tell him a story without being asked. The uncles and aunts who would teach him something just by being around.

I grew up in that world. I know what it gave me. My son experienced it too, and he misses it. I wanted to find a way to bring even a fraction of it back to him.

I became the storyteller. Every night, I would run my imagination wild, making him the hero of his own adventures with a companion he loved by his side. It worked. He would listen to that companion in ways he would never listen to his parents, because parents sound like they are teaching or scolding. A hero companion just sounds like a friend.

The person he truly lit up for was residing thousands of miles away. His Dadi. His Nana. Their voices carried a warmth that no app or video call could replicate.

And then there were the hard days. The ones where you are exhausted from work, there is no family to lean on, and a tantrum hits. You hand over a screen. Not because you want to, but because you have nothing left. Every parent in this situation knows that guilt.

What if his grandmother could tell him a story in her own voice, even from thousands of miles away? What if the story was about his day, his friends, his world, and could teach him something without ever sounding like a lecture?

My son was the first user. If he didn't ask for "one more," it wasn't good enough.