Long but worth the read — especially for our hearts:
The notification on my phone is what broke me.
I was in the kitchen, rushing between pots, steam, and stress. The biryani rice wasn’t cooperating, the samoosas were browning too quickly, and the kids were arguing over who finished the Wi-Fi.
It was a Friday — Jumu’ah. A day of barakah, family, and mercy.
My phone buzzed. “Motion detected at Front Gate.”
I wiped my hands on a dish towel and opened the camera feed.
There they were.
My father, dressed in his best kurta — the cream one he only wears for Eid and weddings — looking a little thinner than I remembered. My mother stood beside him holding a small Tupperware of her legendary dhall, the one she knows is my favourite.
They were standing at the gate. Just standing.
I checked the time. 12:15 PM.
I told them to come at 1:30.
“Oh no,” I sighed. “They’re so early. The house is upside down… I’m not ready.”
I watched the screen, expecting them to ring the bell.
But they didn’t.
My father raised his hand to press the buzzer, hesitated, then pulled it back. He looked at my mother and whispered something. She shook her head and pointed to the car, as if saying, Let’s wait. Don’t disturb them.
They were afraid of being a burden.
I stood frozen in my fancy, fast-paced modern life — staring at the two people who once carried my whole world.
I rushed to the door.
“Mummy? Daddy?”
They jumped, embarrassed.
“Sorry, my child,” my father said, fiddling with his cap. “We didn’t hit traffic. We can wait. We don’t want to be in the way. We’ll sit in the car until you’re ready.”
“No, no, come inside,” I said, trying to smile.
My mother stepped in first. She looked… small.
When did she become small?
This was the woman who could run a home on nothing, who protected us like a lioness, who made a pot of food stretch to feed the whole neighbourhood if needed. She was strength, warmth, and noise.
Now she stepped into my polished, modern, two-storey home like she was trespassing.
“I brought the dhall,” she whispered. “I know you ordered catering, but… your father likes mine.”
“Thank you, Ma,” I said softly.
I went back to the kitchen, expecting to hear them chatting, helping, fussing.
But the house went silent.
After a few minutes, I stepped into the lounge.
They were sitting on the edge of the sofa… like guests in a waiting room. My father’s hands were clasped tightly. My mother was staring at a photo frame, but not touching it.
They sat there trying to take as little space as possible in the life they built for me.
A wave of guilt flooded me.
My father — the man who worked long hours, drove an old car so I could go to a better school, carried groceries, fixed broken taps, taught me Qur’an, taught me sabr — was sitting upright, afraid to lean back and make a cushion crease.
My mother — who used to host 20 people in a house half this size — was sitting timidly, waiting for permission to exist.
Somewhere along the way, as life got bigger and busier, the roles had flipped.
They became the ones tiptoeing around me.
I became the one they didn’t want to disturb.
They didn’t come early because they mixed up the time.
They came early because they have nowhere else to go.
Their world has become small. Their phone hardly rings. Their friends have moved to other cities or returned to Allah. Their days are quiet. Too quiet.
This — a simple Friday lunch — was the highlight of their week.
And I was treating it like a task on my calendar.
I walked over and sat next to my father.
“Daddy,” I said, my voice cracking.
He straightened. “Yes, my child? Do you need help? I can sweep, I can take the rubbish out—”
“No,” I whispered, taking his rough, hardworking hand.
“I just need you.”
He looked confused, emotional.
I turned to my mother.
“Ma… forget the catering. Teach me the dhall recipie again. I think I forgot how to make it as tasty as you do
Her face lit up instantly — that spark of confidence I hadn’t seen in years.
“Ai, man,” she said, standing taller. “Move. Who taught you people to cook like this? Where’s your beater?”
“There,” I smiled.
“Left side or right side? You don’t know? Haybo!”
She marched to the kitchen like she owned the place. My father rolled up his sleeves:
“Where’s the carving knife? Let me see if you kids still slice like amateurs.”
They weren’t visitors anymore. They were parents again.
The lunch was chaotic.
We ate late.
Something burned.
My son spilled juice on the carpet.
But it was the most beautiful Jumu’ah in ages.
Because I saw them again.
My father teaching my son how to ride a bike.
My mother showing my daughter how to fold samoosa pur.
Their eyes alive.
Their voices confident.
Their presence priceless.
And I realised something powerful:
Our parents spend their youth building us.
We spend our adulthood forgetting they need us.
Not for money.
Not for gifts.
Not for grand gestures.
But for presence.
For acknowledgment.
For a place in our lives.
When they were leaving, my mother hugged me tightly — longer than usual.
“Thank you, my child,” she said, smiling. “We had such a lovely afternoon.”
“You don’t need an invitation,” I whispered. “Please… come anytime.”
My father patted my back, the same way he did when I was five.
“We’re proud of you,” he said softly.
I watched their car pull away slowly.
Carefully.
Cautiously.
Age showing in every movement.
And I felt my heart sink.
The Lesson (for anyone blessed to still have parents):
They don’t need your perfect home.
They don’t need your big meals.
They don’t need formalities.
They just need you.
Your time.
Your warmth.
Your Du‘ā.
Your invitation.
Don’t let them shrink in your success.
Don’t let them feel invisible.
Don’t let them think they are “in the way.”
Open the door before they knock.
Ask for their advice even if you know the answer.
Let them teach you things.
Let them be loud.
Let them take space.
Because our parents were the ladder we climbed.
And one day, you’ll turn around to share your joy — and realise the ladder is gone.
Love them now.
Love them loudly.
And for the love of Allah — answer the door.
May Allah protect our parents, fill their hearts with peace, grant them long lives in ‘Aafiyah, and reunite us with them in Jannah. Āmīn.
(Source: copied message)