My husband, on the other hand, married me: the type of person who reads every single card in the greeting card aisle to find the best one, and then sets time aside to write something really sentimental. (I had to add that last part in because, you see, my husband would often hand me a blank greeting card). I’m the type of person who thinks long and hard about what he might need but hasn’t gotten around to buying it, or what he should have but doesn’t know it exists.

If you ask my husband, however, he will tell you how the Avani he dated (vs. the Avani he married) was not in her gifting era circa 2011. For his first birthday, which we celebrated as a couple, I gifted him a George Foreman electric indoor grill and panini maker, because he told me he was a foodie. But he was also a broke student living in an apartment, so I thought, what a great utilitarian gift. Shockingly, he did not revoke my girlfriend card from this incident (though, he did from many others!).

Dear reader, I have come a long way since then.

I’ve only been a parent for 9 years, but I’ve been a daughter for 42. But I can confidently say that becoming a parent is what made me rethink gifting for Father’s Day. Growing up in an immigrant household that spent money very conservatively, Father’s/Mother’s/Valentine’s Day were all considered American holidays. Like we could just opt out, as we did with Christmas.

So, until my kids are old enough to take on the responsibility for this holiday, I will be reporting for duty.

TLDR: Just trust my recommendations because the recipient has not returned any of these gifts. Here’s the list of items that I have gifted my husband, ranked in order of usage (from daily to occasionally):

#1) For His Everyday:

I’m pretty sure my husband’s old wallet was older than our eldest child, which is precisely the reason it looked the way it did. Since it’s something he reaches for every single day, I knew it was time for an upgrade. I personally love gifting things that you can personalize, and this wallet gives you the option to go bold or subtle.

Pro tip: add a layer of cutesy and practicality by stuffing it with a wallet sized photo of the kids, and a $50 bill to save him a trip to the ATM.

#2 - For His Monthly Trips:

One thing about my husband: you'll never see him have a bad hair day. This man washes, blow-dries, and styles his hair daily. (Sometimes I even secretly race him to see who takes longer: me doing my no-makeup-makeup look, or him doing his hair). So, when he started traveling for work, I knew this roomy toiletry bag could fit practically his entire vanity.

#3 - For Those Nights Out:

You know how there are certain things your man wears that make you take a mental note to donate them so he can never wear them again? And then, there are those things that make you wish you had bought one in every color? Yeah… so this bomber, most definitely, falls in the latter category. It instantly elevates any basic tee he has ever paired it with.

#4 - For Game Nights

OK, I can’t take credit for picking this tennis racquet because I literally know nothing about sports. But what I do know is that my husband went through 5 different racquets until finally sticking with this one. I realize that sometimes men just need to blame something other than themselves for a poor game performance, but this one apparently could help them feel better on the court.

#5 - For the Sous-Chef:

I’m optimistically ranking this gift 5th in terms of usage, because this is what I got him this year (don’t worry, he doesn’t read my Substack). Although he makes breakfast for the family on the weekends, do I actually expect him to wear an apron? Nope. But will my kids force him to? Absolutely. (My girls are currently binging “Kids Baking Championship,” so they approved this idea). And yes, of course, I got it personalized with “Chef Baba” (baba means father in Bengali).

#6 - For Those Nights In:

I got the idea for this smoker boards kit after going to a swanky bar. My hubby ordered a cocktail that had a smoky flavor and we got to chatting about how it’s infused. Since he enjoys making a good cocktail almost as much as drinking one, I knew the hottest dad deserved a smokin’ gift. (Oh c’mon - that was too easy!)

#7 - For the Kids (More Than the Dad):

OK, “funny” story about this book. I gifted it to him after our youngest was born. The following year, for Mother’s Day, he GAVE ME AN IDENTICAL MOM’S VERSION. Reader, I was not amused. When I said earlier that my expectations have gone unmet, this is a prime example. I still included the book in this list because, despite my feelings about it, our kids truly do love it. It’s unlike any other book on our shelves, and it’s guaranteed to be a tear-jerker for newbie parents.

There you have it! I know this list heavily skews towards “function” over “form” but hear me out: I’m a gujju. I feel like every gift needs to earn a place in our lives, or else… it feels like a waste of money? So if this aligns with your core values, then shop away, guilt-free.

I’m forgetting a ton of other stuff I’ve bought over the years. If you're anything like me and find yourself asking Google/AI every June, “Father’s day gift ideas for [type of dad],” then hopefully this list helps save you some time.

Now do me a favor: tell me what I should buy next year. Drop your best Father's Day gift ideas below.

Until next time,

Avani

I thought I had nailed it. Then the Q&A portion began. And the very first question stumped me: “What is your exit strategy?” I rattled off some big names like Spin Master and Disney as potential buyers, but I wasn’t fooling anyone with my unpolished and unprepared response.

The truth is, at the time, we had no exit strategy because it felt like we were just getting started, and things were going well. Really well. Back then, I used to think that we were building a legacy family business that one day, we would pass down to our kids to run. (I fully realize how naive and optimistic that sounds now.)

My feelings - and mind - eventually began to change. My kids and nieces were all still under the age of 7, but I had already ruled them out as successors. They had shown no aptitude for entrepreneurship nor any loyalty to our toys. Surely, they were instantly disqualified from the family inheritance.

But the real reason my ambitions turned more short-sighted and expansive is that I started thinking about what an exit strategy could potentially look like. Somewhere along the way, I set my eyes on the Ambanis. (Shoot your shot, right?) Now with Elon Musk as the world’s first trillionaire, the Ambanis are like… not even that rich. So, no, it wasn’t just their wealth that drew me to them as the dream buyer for Modi Toys. They had shown a propensity for acquiring children’s brands, including Hamleys and Edamamma. But the biggest reason of all was the family’s devotion to their Hindu faith. And here’s the kicker - their family had been gifted our toys several times! Modi Toys was no longer just a brand living inside a fantasy bubble - they actually knew we existed (and then some).

I tried so hard to manifest this into reality that I even have this one black jumper that I’ve been saving in the hopes of wearing it to the Ambanis’ someday. I eventually decided to wear it to Chicago to meet with our almost-new buyer, thinking the outfit was destined for a life-changing moment. Sadly, the buyer pulled out before I even had a chance to steam and pack the jumper. To this day, it remains unworn, as a sad symbol of an unrequited dream, as opposed to what it truly is: another piece of clothing.

By the time we had decided to pause our operations, I had already contacted Nita Ambani to gauge her interest. I wanted to give her the first right of refusal because once word got out, I didn’t want to put her in the unnecessary and awkward situation of a bidding war. Since she never responded to my emails, that opened up the doors to the 30+ people who inquired with us about potentially acquiring Modi Toys.

Our pause announcement was meant to provide closure for me, more than anything else. As I say in the video, I had thought about quietly fading away, but that felt like shame, as if we had done something wrong. Sharing the news turned out to be the right decision because it not only allowed us to sell a significant amount of our inventory, but it piqued the interest of several people who wondered if they could carry the Modi Toys brand forward.

I treated every inquiry with hope, earnestness, and full transparency. I tried not to judge a book by its cover - or in this case, a buyer by their email. Some were hastily written. Some were clearly AI slop. Four turned into offers, which ultimately didn’t pan out for various reasons. A few had the courtesy to send a polite note declining to move forward. The rest just ghosted me.

At one point, I created a spreadsheet to keep track of all the conversations I was having simultaneously. While they were all customers, there was a wide range of people I met. From experienced business owners who thought they could apply their expertise, to corporate employees looking for a side gig. From those looking to jump into entrepreneurship for the very first time, to those (whom I suspect were) simply being nosy as to what really happened.

I’m still receiving inquiries, even six months after the announcement. I still entertain every single one of them. During each call, I lay out my proposal for a relaunch and the various forms the new ownership could take. I still give them full transparency, but no longer put my fate in their hands. I’ve seen this movie before: hope, uncertainty, disappointment. Rinse and repeat.

I’ve learned not to take these things personally, because it’s quite literally business. But I couldn’t help but wonder how is it possible that we built a brand that’s loved so much by so many… that we just let it die? This brand deserves to live on beyond its founders. I may have become the de facto voice and face of Modi Toys, but there are millions of Avanis out there: Indian American moms raising first- or second-generation children, hoping to keep their roots alive and thriving.

Maybe that’s why I never had an exit strategy mapped out. Maybe “exit” felt too much like abandonment. Like turning my back on something I had brought into the world.

But the irony is, I’m still walking away.

Not all at once. Not in a clean, cinematic way. Just slowly, over time. Through every inquiry that fizzles. Every offer that falls apart. Every restock DM I don’t know how to answer.

For now, Modi Toys still lives in this strange in-between place: too loved to feel dead, too uncertain to feel alive.

And maybe that’s the hardest part. Not knowing whether I’m supposed to be grieving the end, preparing for a rebirth, or simply learning how to leave something before it has fully left me.

And this is how I first learned that a former player in their space - let’s call them “Joopy” for this post - had been acquired by a private equity firm. I double-clicked into it because this was new news to me. The last I heard about Joopy was earlier this year, when its founder announced that the company had been acquired. But at the time, no additional details were provided regarding the buyer’s name or the deal amount.

To understand why I took a greater interest in this piece of news than the general public, it’s important to know that I, too, recently closed the chapter on my company. So whenever I hear about another founder announcing a closure - whether it’s a jewelry brand, a food brand, or a clothing brand - I naturally want to dig in. What went wrong? What did they learn? Is there a pattern here? What could have been done differently? I guess call it a form of healing. Or post-mortem comparison?

Modi Toys and Joopy both started and ended around the same time. They followed a similar arc, but our stories couldn’t have been more different. As I read through the press release - which revealed the name of the private equity firm, along with its two partners - once again, I went a step further than the general public might care to. I googled them. Nothing. OK. I went to LinkedIn. Again, nothing. I went back to AI - and, ditto.

I realize that having access to the internet does not make one an investigative journalist. And yet, she persisted.

I thought it was definitely a bit strange that I couldn’t find a single article, post, profile - basically, any sort of a digital footprint - about the said firm or its partners. BUT! I did find the firm’s website. HOWEVER! It was bare bones. Literally just a few words followed by a contact us form on a home page. Not a single other detail.

Well, this must be a brand new website, I assumed. So, I checked one of those domain lookup sites to see when the URL was registered, and to my surprise, it was created just days after the press release was issued. Unfortunately, the domain registrar’s name is now kept private under new regulations, so I have no way of identifying the person behind it.

This is the part where I should have said to myself, “Wow, well that is certainly interesting,” and closed all my tabs, walked away from my computer, and gone back to doing suburban-millennial-mom-things. As we now know, I did the complete opposite.

Instead, I wrote about my online findings (or lack thereof?), AND went a step further: I extrapolated and concluded as to what really happened… as if I confidently knew what actually happened. Of course, I don’t know and never will know. BUT! I can confidently say the company was in distress for a period of time.

Look, I’m not here to shame anyone for trying to navigate through hardship. WE’VE ALL GONE THROUGH IT. Every single one of us. The part that kept bothering me is how the founder chose to frame it: that Joopy was acquired. It just felt… performative?

I mean, sure, in the technical definition of an acquisition - where an entity wrote a check to Joopy - yes, that is what I imagine happened. Is this entity the same one named in the press release, with the brand new website? I suspect not. Was the actual buyer not “newsworthy” enough that Joopy’s founder felt the need to name a fictitious private equity firm? There’s no way for me to confirm this theory, so I truly don’t know - which is why it was wrong of me to state my assumptions as facts.

What made it worse - or maybe what made it easier? - is that people resonated with what I had written. Some DMs called me brave. People commented on how I said the hard parts out loud, and how it was about time we talked about situations like these candidly. I'd be lying if I said that didn't feel reassuring - like I had won in some court of law. It's a strange thing, to be praised for the exact thing you end up regretting.

What I found to be troubling was what the headlines implied: Joopy raised millions of dollars, and now, it has sold it for even more millions of dollars.

The keyword here, though, is implied.

It’s the subtext behind the actual printed text. The text is what I write, whereas the subtext is what you read. It’s a subtle but important difference.

Subtext is all around us. My parents haven’t told me I should go look for a job now. (And most certainly not as an investigative journalist). But every time they ask, “So, have you thought about what you’ll do next?” it’s implied they’re worried and that I should figure out my next career move before I become stagnant and unemployable.

Nobody said this is the only way to win. But it’s there, in the subtext, every time someone calls it an exit instead of an ending. Every time “acquired for an undisclosed amount” gets the press release, and “I tried, it didn’t work” gets pity.

I admit, saying the hard part out loud is really hard, sometimes out of fear of judgment or backlash. What I’ve learned since last week is that not everything needs to be said out loud. Sometimes, the whispers travel farther.

You see, I come from a traditional Indian family. We believe in things like nazar and “log kya kahenge” (“what will people say"?). While people may hit “like” and comment words of encouragement, in reality, they may actually like to see you fail. And I understand their concern. I really do.

And yet, I still hit publish, even against my better judgment - or in this case, the judgment of my family.

Growing up, my mom never said, “I love you.” Instead, she asked:

“Did you eat?”

“Did you reach?”

“I made your favorite food.”

And while I was always well fed, I was starved for words of affection.

Even praises from my parents sounded strained, and were limited to a three-word quota of either “good” or “keep it up.”

You would think that I’d end up marrying someone who filled this void, but on the contrary, my husband is also a man of few words. While I knew there was not much I could do to change my parents, I was determined to set some ground rules with my husband early on in our relationship. I told him how much a handwritten greeting card means to me. How I spend way more time than the average person in the greeting cards aisle, reading through every single option before choosing the right one (or at least, the least terrible one).

During every special occasion like my birthday, anniversary, and Mother’s Day, it’s the greeting card more than a gift that I would be excited to open. In fact, these cards hold so much meaning to me that one time, I threw them all out. You read that right.

It was early in our marriage, and I had gotten into a huge fight with my husband. I was so furious - of course, I can no longer even remember why - that I needed to show him exactly how hurt I was. So I went and grabbed the stack of cards I had saved since the beginning of our relationship, and dumped them all into the trash.

Those cards were never recovered, and every so often, when I think about them, I regret it.

And maybe it’s part of the reason why I’ve always felt compelled to process my feelings through writing. To be clear, no one in my family supports my oversharing tendency. (Hence, their objection to yesterday’s post). While they appreciate my writing, they would much rather that the subject matter be something… less personal. They see my vulnerability as fodder. They see it as foolishness, as if I’m revealing all my cards. And I admit, they’re not wrong. But so many things in life often go unspoken, and maybe I’m afraid of dying one day regretting the things I never said, rather than the things I did.

Luckily my tears were no match for my mascara. But how was I going to mask my broken heart? Like with everything else: I put one foot in front of the other and decided this was going to be future-Avani’s problem.

The present-Avani had a job to do and a smile to put on.

The event was invite-only but I had snuck in a plus-one: my anxiety. This was my first social outing since I made the announcement in December. I was bracing for impact every time someone would inevitably ask, “How are things?”

It’s such an innocent question. So generic. How could I possibly feel uncomfortable? It wasn’t the question, as much as it was my own unknown, unsolidified answer. Each time, I would fumble my way through saying something between equally generic or pure honesty.

Up until that dreaded text, I was feeling very hopeful. Excited even. Over the past two months, I had been in talks with a family office that I had naively trusted with my business’ P&L statements, sales data, and, more importantly, my dreams of relaunching the brand. But that was the past-Avani.

The present-Avani was confused, pissed, sad, and wanted to stuff that feeling of emptiness inside with a really good cry. But my only options at the time were yogurt kebabs, cheese kulchas, sweet potato chaat, and banarsi puri. Surprisingly, they did the trick, even if momentarily.

As I slowly ate my way through my feelings and the three-course meal, I shifted my attention to the stars of the evening: Vikas Khanna and the owners of Laxmi, Neil and Amprapali Soni. They each spoke about the real inspiration behind their success: their mothers.

As they were talking, my eyes slowly gazed towards the sign behind them, which had the brand’s famous slogan printed on it: #LaxmiHaiNaa. (For my ABCDs, it means “Laxmi is there for you.”). Never have I ever wanted to believe a marketing hashtag so badly.

When I finally reached back home later that night, my kids had already learned that my upcoming trip had been canceled. They asked me why, and I simply said, “Because they don’t want to buy Modi Toys anymore.” My 4-year-old son, without skipping a beat, said, “I want to buy Modi Toys. I want to buy all the toys. Ganesh, Hanuman, Saraswati, all of them.”

Leave it to my child to release the tears that I had been fiercely guarding all night.

Trying to raise kids while trying to build a business often feels in conflict with each other. Like you can only do a good job at one or the other, or a half-ass job at both.

But at that very moment, being a mom was the only thing that made this entire shitty situation feel better. Maybe that hashtag has a point after all… laxmi - or wealth - is how you define it. And if my kids are my greatest asset, then perhaps I’ll be fine after all, because #LaxmiHaiNaa.

Which is strange, considering I’m someone who will tear up even over a well-made detergent commercial.

I’ve come close. A few times this past month, I’ve felt it rising - but then my shortening attention span, bless it, kicks in and saves me. I’ll pivot to anything: a podcast, a walk, filling the birdfeeder, decluttering some forgotten corner of the house, scheduling overdue doctor’s appointments, client calls, starting art projects, sending thank you notes, baking a French toast casserole, buying boots I didn’t need, or complaining about something my MIL said that probably doesn’t matter. It’s almost as if it’s easier to carry the weight of the grief than to release it through a really good cry. Or maybe it’s because it’s hard to let go of any part of it at all, as if the tears carry memories I'm afraid I'll lose when I wipe them away.

When I step back and look at it objectively, it feels almost ridiculous to cry over a small business. It’s not a person. It’s legal documents. A website. A bunch of reports. A building. Products scattered across strangers’ homes. Right? But no matter how much my mind tries to trivialize it, my heart knows all too well what the business truly meant to me.

Maybe it’s not the business I’m grieving. Maybe it’s the version of the future I’d imagined. The past hurts too, but at least I know how that story ends. The future, though? That used to be wide open. Filled with possibilities. And it still is - just not the ones I had imagined.

That’s the part that gets me. That’s when I have to bite my lip from quivering. Not what was, but what could have been.

During my walk earlier today, I was listening to a podcast that referenced a study by psychologist Hal Hershfield. The research found that when people think about their distant future selves - say, 10 or 20 years from now - their brains light up the same way they do when thinking about a stranger. Neurologically, your future self doesn't feel like you. It feels like someone else entirely.

It makes sense. 22-year old Avani could have never imagined the life of the 42-year old Avani. Not that I’m a completely different person now, but because we tend to dream linearly, but live our lives in zigzags. We think in sprints but live in marathons. And that’s what I have to remind myself: the zigzags aren't detours. They are the path. This was simply a turn I didn't see coming.

Turns out, I’m not smarter than a third grader, because I recently learned something new from my daughter’s school magazine.

It talked about monarch butterflies and their incredible migration south to a forest in Michoacán, Mexico. The journey spans thousands of miles, yet no single butterfly actually completes the entire trip from start to finish...

The butterfly that begins the flight - let’s call her Mona - travels as far as her short life allows. When she stops to rest and lay her eggs, the next generation takes over. Then the next, and the next, until Mona’s great-grandchild finally reaches the destination she began heading toward.

None of them has ever been there before, yet something within them knows the way. It’s as if they carry an invisible map - an instinctive pull guiding them toward their “north star.”

That image stayed with me.

Like many of your parents, mine once left India for America, laying roots in a country they had never even visited before.

You see where I’m going with this, right? Are we really so different from those monarch butterflies?

We usually associate butterflies with growth and transformation. But I never thought of them as symbols of legacy - a reminder that every generation carries the flight a little further.

We’re all part of something much larger than ourselves - a story that began long before us, and one that will keep unfolding long after.