Blog Details

Some things in life can’t be seen with our eyes, only felt with our hearts—like the way the breeze tickles your cheeks on a spring day, or how sunlight peeks through the clouds just to say hello. That’s what Ammi is like. You might not see her glowing like the angels in bedtime stories, but I know—deep in my heart—that she’s something even more magical.

Our mornings at home are full of gentle sounds that belong only to her. The floor creaks softly, the kettle whistles like it’s sharing a secret, and the smell of parathas climbs the stairs like a warm, invisible hug.

Every morning, just like always, Ammi touches my forehead gently, whispers the Kalima, and says, “My darling, today belongs to you.” Her voice is soft like the morning air—calm and full of promise. Her words wrap around me like a cozy blanket that keeps me brave all day long.

Ammi doesn’t wear a crown, but I think she should. Her dupatta flows more beautifully than anything on TV—more sparkling than any queen’s jewels. Her hands may be a little rough, but they are always busy helping, tying my shoelaces, picking up lost crayons, and wiping away my tears when I don’t want anyone to know I’m sad.

She doesn’t just cook—she makes magic. Her daal feels like a hug in a bowl, and her roti is soft enough to cheer me up, even after a tough day. When something scares me or someone is unkind, she places her hand gently on my back and says, “You are not alone. Allah is with you. And so am I.” And somehow, just like that, I feel brave enough to touch the sky.

Once, I drew a picture of the moon with a big smile and pink stars. Someone at school laughed at it. I came home feeling small. But Ammi didn’t tell me to stop. She kissed my forehead and said, “Van Gogh didn’t stay inside the lines either.” I didn’t know who that was, but the way she said it made me believe my moon was something special. And I smiled at it again.

Our house isn’t big or fancy. The paint is peeling in the corners, and sometimes the fan stops when the power goes out. But even in the dark, Ammi brings light. She hums lullabies that sound like the moon is singing. I think she might be made of light—or maybe she’s a prayer Allah sent just for me.

People say that heaven lies beneath a mother’s feet. I used to think heaven was high up in the clouds. But now, I believe it lives right in Ammi’s lap, in the way she whispers my name when she prays, and in the way she waits for me—with love, like a flower waiting for the sun.

One day, I asked what she wanted for Mother’s Day. She smiled and said, “Just grow up kind.” But I want to do even more. I want to write her name in the stars, plant her a garden that never fades, and lay the whole sky at her feet wrapped in her dupatta.

Ammi doesn’t walk behind me. She walks right beside me. Every step. Every breath. Even when I grow taller than her—and I almost am—I will always look up to her.

She is my calm.
She is my courage.
She is the gentlest part of my world.
She is my prayer.
She is everything to me.