The Look I Never Thought I Would See Again

The Look I Never Thought I Would See Again There are certain expressions that stay with you forever. As I care for my 92-year-old mother, who is living with dementia, I sometimes catch a glimpse in her eyes that takes me back to a place I never wanted to revisit. It is the same distant, empty look I saw in Sana during her final days. In those last weeks, the lymphoma had progressed so rapidly that her cognition declined before our eyes. The vibrant, intelligent, compassionate young woman we knew was still there, but the illness had begun to take away her ability to connect with the world around her. It was heartbreaking to witness. That look has never left me. Seeing it again in my mother reminds me that illnesses affecting the brain—whether caused by cancer, dementia, or another disease—can rob a person of so much, even while they are still physically present with us. It is one of the most painful realities for those left to care for someone they love. Yet alongside the grief, there is gratitude. I am grateful that Sana did not have to endure prolonged suffering. Although losing her was devastating beyond words, I take comfort in knowing that her pain was not drawn out. Sometimes love means wishing for more time; other times, it means being thankful that someone you cherish was spared a longer journey of suffering. Grief has a way of resurfacing in unexpected moments. A familiar expression. A vacant stare. A memory you thought had settled quietly in your heart. These moments remind me that love never disappears. It simply finds new ways to make itself known. I miss Sana every single day. And as I walk this journey with my mother, I carry both sorrow and gratitude together—grieving the daughter I lost while cherishing the memories of the extraordinary person she was.

When a Life Becomes a Book

When a Life Becomes a Book It took two years for Sana's photo book to be published. Today, it finally arrived. I had imagined this moment so many times, yet nothing prepared me for it. Holding the book in my hands felt like holding pieces of her life. Every page was filled with her smile, her laughter, her milestones, her ordinary moments that now feel extraordinary because they can never happen again. A photo book is such a simple thing. Yet it quietly tells the story of an entire life. Birthdays. Holidays. School days. Family gatherings. Travels. Tiny moments that once seemed insignificant but, in hindsight, become everything. It is remarkable—and heartbreaking—that a person's life can one day be bound between two covers. Opening it was one of the hardest things I have done. As I turned each page, another reality weighed heavily on my heart. My 92-year-old mother is slowly deteriorating. Watching her decline has taken me back to a place I never wanted to revisit. The hospital memories. The uncertainty. The helplessness. The constant anticipation of what might come next. It all echoes the days we spent fighting for Sana. Grief has a way of layering itself. It doesn't replace one loss with another; it adds to it. Sometimes the past and present become so intertwined that it is difficult to tell where one ends and the other begins. People often ask if I cry. The truth is, I don't cry as much anymore. Not because the pain has lessened, but because I think I have reached a place of numbness. There are moments when the heart carries so much that tears no longer know how to express it. I miss Sana every single day. And now, as I watch my mother fade, I find myself terrified of another goodbye. Loving deeply comes with the unbearable knowledge that loss is always possible. Yet as painful as this book is to open, I am grateful it exists. It reminds me that Sana lived. She loved. She was loved. She filled our lives with kindness, laughter, curiosity, and compassion. A book cannot contain a person, but it can preserve the footprints they left on the hearts of those who loved them. Perhaps that is what memories are meant to do—not keep someone alive, because nothing can do that—but remind us that they were here, that they mattered, and that their story continues through the lives they touched. Today, I closed the book. Not because I was finished with it, but because my heart could only hold so much. One day, I hope I'll be able to open it again—not with the same overwhelming sadness, but with gratitude for the beautiful life that fills its pages. Until then, Sana's story remains safely between those covers... and forever within my heart.

A Brother, A Sister, A Bond That Time Cannot Break

A Brother, A Sister, A Bond That Time Cannot Break Sometimes, it is the most unexpected moments that awaken the deepest memories. During my recent trip to Italy, I watched the relationship between Maya and Luigi. There was something so natural about the way they cared for one another—the teasing, the laughter, the quiet protectiveness that only siblings seem to understand. As I watched them, I couldn't help but think of Sana and Maahir. From the very beginning, Sana was fiercely protective of her younger brother. She wasn't just his sister; she was his guardian, his confidante, and often his biggest advocate. If she sensed he was upset or struggling, she would step in without hesitation. Shielding him came naturally to her. As they grew older, their relationship evolved into something even more beautiful. They became true friends. They shared jokes that no one else understood, supported one another through life's ups and downs, and celebrated each other's successes as though they were their own. What touched me most was the trust they shared. Whether it was something trivial or something that weighed heavily on their hearts, they instinctively turned to each other first. Sana would call Maahir over the smallest inconvenience, and he would do exactly the same. Before seeking advice from anyone else, they sought each other. That kind of bond cannot be manufactured. It is built over years of shared memories, unconditional love, and knowing that, no matter what happens, someone is always in your corner. Watching Maya and Luigi reminded me of everything Sana was as a sister. It made me smile because I could see so much of her reflected in those moments. But it also brought an ache that words can barely describe. It reminded me of what Maahir has lost—not just a sister, but his first phone call, his protector, his safe place, and one of his closest friends. Grief often arrives disguised as memory. It finds us in ordinary moments, in familiar relationships, and in scenes unfolding before our eyes. For a brief moment in Italy, I wasn't just watching another brother and sister. I was remembering my own children. Although Sana is no longer here, the love she gave Maahir remains part of who he is. The lessons she taught him, the confidence she instilled in him, and the countless memories they created together continue to shape his life. Some relationships do not end with death. They simply change form. The conversations become memories, the laughter becomes echoes, and the love... the love remains, quietly woven into the hearts of those left behind. That is the gift Sana gave her brother. And it is a bond that not even death can break.

Father’s Day Without Sana

Father’s Day Without Sana Today is Father’s Day, and without Sana, it feels impossible to celebrate in the way we always did. She was the heart behind every Father’s Day. Somehow, she always managed to find the perfect gift for Idris—a task that seemed impossible to the rest of us. He was the most difficult person to buy for, yet whatever Sana chose, he not only appreciated but actually used. She had a way of knowing exactly what would make him smile. Father’s Day was also about our traditional brunch together, a simple family ritual that now feels irreplaceable. Those moments seemed ordinary at the time, but today they are among the memories we treasure most. Sana was so much like her dad. They shared so many qualities—strength, determination, humor, and a quiet understanding of each other that didn’t always need words. Losing her has left a void that is always present, but on days like today, it feels even deeper. Being in Italy with my niece has made these difficult days a little easier to bear. Ritika shared a very special bond with Sana, one built on love, friendship, and countless memories. There is comfort in being together, remembering her, talking about her, and feeling her presence in the stories we share. Sometimes it feels as though Sana wanted us all to be together during moments like this. Even in her absence, she continues to bring us closer, reminding us of the importance of family, connection, and love. Today, we miss her deeply. We celebrate the father she adored, the traditions she created, and the beautiful ways she continues to live on in all of us.

Remembering Sana: The Many Ways We Keep Her Close

Remembering Sana: The Many Ways We Keep Her Close Today, Fatema visited Sana's resting place in New Jersey and sent me photographs from the cemetery. As much as I know, intellectually, that Sana is gone, those images brought back a wave of emotions I was not prepared for. In an instant, I felt transported back in time—to the days when her absence still seemed impossible to comprehend. Grief is a strange companion. It does not move in a straight line. It arrives in fragments, in photographs, in memories, in places, and in moments when you least expect it. Every part of this journey has been marked by remembrance. Whether through conversations, stories, or quiet reflections, Sana has been present in every step. There are moments when reality settles in, only to drift away again. It is as though my heart accepts her loss in small pieces, never all at once. One part of me finds comfort in knowing that she no longer has to suffer. That thought brings a measure of peace. Yet another part of me continues to wrestle with the question of why. How can someone so loved, so kind, and so deeply woven into the lives of others simply no longer be here? What continues to amaze me is how many lives Sana touched. Recently, her dear friend Mishtea shared that she would like to place a plaque in Sana's honour at one of the schools in Cambodia through the Caring for Cambodia project, a cause that Sana cared deeply about. The thought is beautiful. Perhaps it will be placed near an early childhood classroom, reflecting not only her passion for education but also her love of books, learning, and nurturing young minds. There are so many ways to remember her. Through schools, through plaques, through stories, through acts of kindness, through the people she inspired, and through the lives she changed. Her legacy continues to grow in places she cared about and in the hearts of those who loved her. And yet, despite all of these meaningful tributes, there remains an ache that none of them can fully soothe. The unbearable pain of missing her still lives in my heart. The memorials matter. The remembrance matters. The legacy matters. But they exist alongside a grief that remains profound and deeply personal. Perhaps that is what love looks like after loss. We build monuments, we tell stories, we continue the work that mattered to those we have lost—not because it lessens the pain, but because it allows their light to continue shining in a world that feels dimmer without them. Sana's memory lives on in countless ways. And while my heart still struggles to understand her absence, I am grateful that so many people continue to carry her with them. Every act of remembrance is a reminder that her life mattered, that her kindness left an imprint, and that she will never be forgotten.

Sana Would Have Been Happier Here

Sana Would Have Been Happier Here As I sit overlooking the sea in Italy, watching families linger over meals, children play in the piazzas long after sunset, and people move through life at a gentler pace, I find myself thinking about Sana. I know it is impossible to know with certainty where happiness would have found her. Mental health struggles are complex, and no place on earth can guarantee peace. Yet I cannot help but wonder if she would have felt more at home in a place like this. Italy feels different. Life is not organized around constant achievement, endless productivity, or the pressure to always be doing more. People seem to understand something that much of the modern world has forgotten: life is meant to be lived, not merely endured. Here, conversations stretch for hours. Families gather around tables without checking the time. Vacations are not viewed as indulgences but as necessities. There is beauty everywhere—in the mountains, the sea, the architecture, the food, and in the simple rituals of daily life. Sana noticed beauty. She found joy in small things that others often overlooked. She loved good food, meaningful conversations, and moments of connection. She had a gentle soul and a sensitivity to the world around her. Sometimes that sensitivity brought her great joy. At other times, it made life harder. As I walk through these streets, I imagine her sitting at a café overlooking the ocean, sketching, laughing with friends, or simply watching the world go by. I imagine her finding comfort in a culture that seems to value being as much as doing. Perhaps what I am really grieving is not only the loss of Sana but also the loss of all the possibilities that will never be. The places she will never visit. The sunsets she will never see. The meals she will never share. The version of herself that might have emerged had she been given more time. Travel has a way of reminding us of what matters. In Italy, I am reminded that life is not measured solely by accomplishments, titles, or the number of tasks completed in a day. It is measured in relationships, experiences, laughter, beauty, and love. Sana understood those things better than many adults ever do. And so, as I watch another Italian sunset paint the sky in shades of gold and pink, I think of her. I think of the life she deserved, the peace I hope she has found, and the love she left behind. Maybe she would have been happier in a place like Italy. Or maybe what I am really saying is that I wish she had been given the chance to find out.

What Remains Is Love

What Remains Is Love There are some trips that become more than a journey. They become a collection of memories, conversations, tears, and reminders of the people who continue to shape our lives even after they are gone. Over the past few days, Sana has been part of almost every conversation. Family and friends have shared stories, laughed at old memories, and spoken about the qualities that made her so special. Ritika's family remembered her as gentle, kind, and thoughtful. Hearing others describe Sana through their own memories was both comforting and heartbreaking. It was a reminder that the impact of a life cannot be measured by its length but by the love it leaves behind. As often happens when people gather to remember someone they have lost, the conversation drifted toward the endless "what ifs." What if something had been noticed sooner? What if a different decision had been made? What if circumstances had unfolded differently? These questions are familiar companions of grief. They linger long after loss, searching for answers that may never come. Yet amid those conversations came another realization: everything possible had been done. Every decision had been made with love, hope, and the desire to help. Sometimes acceptance is not about finding answers but about acknowledging that love guided every step. This trip also carried a meaningful gesture. Pieces of jewelry that once belonged to Sana were given to Ritika and Maya It was an emotional decision, but one that felt right. There was comfort in knowing that people who loved Sana would carry a small piece of her with them. Not because an object can replace a person, but because certain belongings become vessels for memory. They hold stories, laughter, and moments that continue to connect people long after someone is gone. And yet, despite the passing of time, there are still moments when the loss feels impossible to comprehend. Moments when it is difficult to believe that Sana is no longer physically here. At the same time, her presence seems to appear everywhere. Watching Maahir and Serena bond with Ritika and her family brought back memories of Sana. She had a remarkable ability to connect with people. Whether with children, friends, or complete strangers, she formed relationships effortlessly. She made people feel welcome, valued, and loved. Seeing those bonds form again served as a powerful reminder of what truly matters. Grief has a way of stripping life down to its essentials. It shifts perspectives and changes priorities. The things that once seemed important often fade into the background. What remains are relationships. The people who show up. The friendships that endure. The family members who sit together and share stories through both laughter and tears. The love that continues long after someone is gone. Perhaps that is Sana's greatest lesson. Life is not measured by accomplishments, possessions, or status. It is measured by the connections we create and the love we leave behind. Years later, it is not the details of everyday life that people remember most. They remember kindness. They remember warmth. They remember how someone made them feel. Sana's life continues to be reflected in those memories, in those relationships, and in the people who still speak her name with love. In the end, it becomes clear that love is not simply part of life. It is the most important part of it.