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Tuhin Talukder (he/him/his), Low Entropy Volunteer Writer

It was the last week of August when we landed in Canada. My wife had received an incredible opportunity to pursue graduate studies at a university here. Her classes were set to begin within days. Alongside our dreams and suitcases, we brought with us our daughter, Nina—a curious, energetic two-year-old.

We applied for the BC Medical Services Plan following our move. Since we had just arrived, the process naturally took some time. Without MSP, we couldn’t register Nina in a daycare. That left us with one option: me. I became Nina’s full-time caregiver while her mom attended classes.

Back home, Nina had been going to daycare since she was seven months old. She thrived among friends and was used to a team of caregivers. Now she was confined to a small apartment, under the care of an amateur—her father.

On our first day together, I was anxious. What if she started crying for her mom? What if I failed to feed her properly? But to my surprise, the day went better than expected. With the help of some cartoons, simple food, and a few toys, we managed to build a day of laughter and calm. She even took a nap without fuss. When my wife came home, she was relieved to see Nina happy. I felt hopeful—maybe I could handle this after all.

On the second day, however, reality set in. I had job applications to submit with looming deadlines. I sat beside Nina with my laptop while she watched cartoons. The weather was grey and so was her mood. She began calling out “Mommy” repeatedly, more and more distressed. I felt the guilt creep in—I had left her emotionally unattended.

She stood by the window, waiting. Long before I noticed, she had spotted her mother returning. When my wife walked in, Nina ran and hugged her tight, clinging with all her little strength. That night, Nina tossed and turned in her sleep, mumbling softly. We suspected she was experiencing separation anxiety for her mom.

My wife and I discussed ways to improve our new routine. I shared how Nina seemed fine for the first few hours, but then boredom and restlessness would take over. We couldn’t afford many toys at the time, and screen time wasn’t a sustainable solution. My wife suggested taking her out for walks. Though the weather was growing colder—especially for us newcomers from a tropical climate—I bundled Nina up in jackets and ventured out each day. It helped. She smiled more. Our neighboring family would stop by with chocolates or small toys—little moments of warmth that brightened our days.

Even then, taking care of her was a journey full of challenges and rare victories—learning to read her needs from her gestures, adjusting routines, and constantly learning and relearning what it meant to be a parent. Some days she skipped naps. Some days she refused meals. There were moments I questioned myself as a parent. Was I doing this right? Was I giving enough? At my lowest, my wife comforted me, saying she too had faced the same struggles when she stayed with Nina. 

“No day was ever perfect with me too,” my wife said.

At the time, it sounded like a kind reassurance—perhaps more consolation than truth.

But then, something unexpected happened. After a couple of months or so, Nina started calling me “Mommy.” Not as a mistake—she continued calling her actual mommy the same. It wasn’t confusion. It was clarity. In her innocent mind, Mommy wasn’t just a person. It was a role—a symbol of care, comfort and love. That moment rewrote something inside me. I was reminded of a line from an old Nescafé song: “You can be a mother when you are a man—open up, you know that you can.”

As weeks passed, we discovered children’s programs at the local library. Nina lit up during those visits, dancing to songs and interacting with others. After a time, we secured a daycare spot for her. Now, she wakes up early in the morning and pushes us to get moving, afraid she’ll be late to meet her friends. Every evening, she runs into our arms with joy on her face. She is settling into Canadian life faster than we are—and seeing her happy is all the reward we need.

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Tuhin Talukder is a newcomer to Canada navigating the challenges and joys of building a new life. He has a passion for storytelling and writing, drawing meaning from everyday moments of connection, compassion and cultural adaptation. He explores the unexpected moments of growth that come with embracing change.