A Thanksgiving to Remember: Maahir's Proposal to Serena

A Thanksgiving to Remember: Maahir's Proposal to Serena Thanksgiving this year brought a whirlwind of emotions for our family. On a crisp and beautiful day in Albuquerque, surrounded by Serena’s family, Maahir proposed to the love of his life. It was a moment of pure joy and heartfelt love—a celebration of a new beginning. But like so many joyful occasions in our lives now, it was interwoven with the bittersweet ache of missing Sana. Earlier this year, in April, Maahir had shared his plans to propose with Sana during a weekend visit home. It was a rare, intimate moment between siblings, and one that I know Sana cherished deeply. She was thrilled for him—her baby brother—and eager to see him happy and settled. I remember Maahir’s excitement as he shared the details with her, and her smile as she listened. Sana had always been so generous with her love and support, and her happiness for Maahir radiated through that conversation. After Maahir shared his plans, I discussed with Sana that he might use one of my rings to propose. It felt fitting, like a small way to contribute to this milestone in his life. Sana, however, had her quirks. While she was incredibly large-hearted and giving in many ways, she had a playful possessiveness about my jewelry. “First dibs,” she would say with a laugh, making her feelings known. Of all my rings, my wedding ring was her absolute favorite. She admired it often, always commenting on its timeless design. It was this ring that Maahir ultimately chose to resize and use for the proposal—a choice that felt deeply symbolic and meaningful. The moment Serena said "yes" was a joyful one for everyone present, and the pictures and videos captured their love perfectly. But as I looked at those images, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness. I wished, with all my heart, that Sana could have been there to celebrate with us. She would have loved every bit of this occasion, from the thoughtful planning to the sheer joy of the moment. Still, I take comfort in believing that Sana is watching over us. I know she would be so happy to see her baby brother settled with someone as wonderful as Serena. Sana had always loved Serena’s kind and warm nature, and I know she would have given her wholehearted blessing to this union. As a family, we are filled with immense joy for Maahir and Serena, but there’s an undercurrent of sadness that will always accompany moments like these. They remind us of the gap Sana’s absence has left in our lives. Yet, in many ways, her spirit continues to guide us and be a part of our journey. I like to think that the ring Maahir proposed with carries not just my blessings, but also Sana’s—an enduring reminder of her love, her generosity, and her place in our hearts. And as we move forward, celebrating new beginnings and milestones, I know she’ll always be with us, cheering us on from a place of eternal peace and love.

Six months

Six Months Without Sana: The Weight of Time and the Number 27 Today marks six months since Sana left us. Six months since our world changed forever. And in our family, the number 27 keeps weaving itself into our story. Maahir’s, Mia’s, and my birthdays all fall on the 27th. Sana passed away on the 27th. Should I think of 27 as good or bad? It’s hard to say. It feels like a number that holds so much significance, both joyful and heartbreaking. Time, they say, moves quickly. But for grieving parents, it feels like it drags, heavy and unyielding. From the outside, it might look like we’re “moving on.” After all, we’ve relocated to Chicago, bought a home, and I’ve started working again. We’re driving to Michigan for Thanksgiving this week and will travel to see family back home in December. To someone looking in, it might seem like we’re rebuilding our lives. But appearances are deceptive. What people don’t see is that every second, every minute, every breath carries Sana’s memory. Every moment is a reminder of her absence. It’s a space we will never truly leave, a void that will always be with us. Yesterday, I received a message from a mover in New York, someone who had helped Sana with her moves. He was a kind, compassionate man who knew she was in the hospital. I had referred him to a friend, and he messaged me to thank me and to ask how Sana was doing. When I told him she had passed, he was shocked. Even people who barely knew her are still in disbelief. Their shock makes my own grief feel justified. How could I not feel this way when even the smallest interactions with her had such a profound impact on others? Yesterday, I also made a step I had been avoiding for months—I finally started using her phone. It’s a newer model than mine, and she was so excited when she bought it. I remember that day clearly. We were together, and she insisted I upgrade to the same one. She was so persistent, full of excitement about her new device. I could never have imagined that six months later, I’d be holding it with a mixture of pain and love, knowing it was once hers. If using her phone, moving to a new city, or returning to work is considered “moving on,” then yes, I am moving on. But in truth, I am not. I am simply learning to exist in a world without her physical presence. Grief is not something you overcome; it’s something you learn to carry. For me, “moving on” doesn’t mean forgetting Sana or letting her go. It means carrying her with me, in my thoughts, my actions, and my memories. As I reflect on these six months, I realize that the number 27, though bittersweet, connects us all. It reminds me that she will always be a part of our story, woven into every moment, every milestone, and every memory. And in that, she will live on forever.

A Sunday Wrapped in Memories

A Sunday Wrapped in Memories Today felt like one of those typical Sundays when Sana was around—lazy, indulgent, and full of good food and laughter. Sundays often meant heading out for a nice brunch, picking a spot we all loved, and stuffing ourselves with delicious food. Last night, Serena and Maahir stayed over, and I can’t begin to describe how much joy it brought me to have them here. This morning, they left to celebrate Thanksgiving with Serena’s family, and Idris and I decided to do something we hadn’t done in ages—we went to a local diner for brunch. Afterwards, we walked over to see the Christmas tree and the skating rink. This rink was where Sana and Serena had gone last year during Thanksgiving when we were all together in Chicago. I could almost see Sana there—skating gracefully across the ice, her face glowing with a big smile. She loved these moments, the simplicity and joy they brought. Idris and I both paused at the rink, lost in thought. Had we ever imagined that a year later, life would be so profoundly different? It’s a thought that hit us hard as we stood there, watching others skate and enjoy what was once a shared joy for our family. Next week, we’re driving to Michigan for Thanksgiving to visit a dear friend. It’s a trip we made two years ago as a whole family, and for Idris, the thought of going back to that house feels overwhelming. He’s dreading facing the memories of that time, of being together as a complete family. I understand his feelings, though in a way, I’ve already faced some of those fears. I visited Michigan in September, and while it was deeply emotional, it was also a step towards acknowledging and living with the loss. It’s funny how we all know, on some level, that life on Earth is temporary. We talk about it as a transition, but we push that reality to the back of our minds. We block out thoughts of mortality, of change, of loss. But when tragedy strikes, it shatters that illusion. Suddenly, the fragility of life is undeniable, and we find ourselves wondering how everything can change in a single moment. Sana’s absence is a constant ache, but days like today remind me of how much she loved life, how fully she embraced it. She found joy in the little things—in skating, in brunches, in family moments. Even as the pain of her absence lingers, I hold on to the memories of those joys. Life is fleeting, and its twists and turns can catch us unprepared. But perhaps the lesson in all of this is to cherish the moments we have, however small, and to let them live on in our hearts, even when life changes forever.

Snowfall

Snowfall and the Hollow Echo of Joy The weather forecast predicts snow today. Yesterday, a friend shared her excitement on Instagram about the first snow flurries in Chicago. As I read about it, instead of feeling a twinge of delight, my stomach twisted—not with excitement, but with anxiety. Sana absolutely loved the snow, especially the first snowfall of the season. Her inner child would come alive, squealing in delight, often capturing the moment to share on our family chat. She’d type excited messages, full of wonder, about how magical it all felt. I can still picture her opening the door during our last visit to Brooklyn, stepping outside, and twirling as the snowflakes danced around her. It was such a simple joy, but it lit her up like nothing else. That’s the thing about Sana—she found happiness in life’s smallest, purest moments. The first snowfall. The sparkle of holiday lights. The warmth of giving during the festive season. She loved going out to carefully pick Christmas gifts for everyone, her face alight with excitement over finding just the right thing. Her joy was contagious. But even amidst her love for the season, she had her quirks. There was one Christmas song that she particularly despised—the kind you’d hear in every store on repeat during the holidays. I never understood her disdain for it, but now, hearing that same song stops me in my tracks. Recently, I was at a store when it came on. My heart began to ache, my stomach churned, and I felt an overwhelming wave of sadness. I abandoned my shopping basket and rushed out, unable to face the memories it brought flooding back. Now, snow and the festivities of this season no longer bring the same warmth or joy. They’ve left me hollow. The first snowfall isn’t a magical moment—it’s a sharp reminder of Sana’s absence. Her laughter, her twirls in the snow, her excitement over the simplest things—they’re all missing. The holiday season used to mean joy, but now it feels like a weight I have to bear. And yet, in the midst of the hollow sadness, I try to remember Sana’s light. She taught me that happiness isn’t always found in the grand moments, but in the smallest, simplest ones. While the snow and festive music now remind me of what I’ve lost, they also remind me of Sana’s beautiful, vibrant spirit—a spirit that found magic in the falling snow and joy in giving to others. Even as I grieve, I hold onto that lesson. Because maybe, just maybe, there’s still a way to honor her memory by finding beauty in the snowflakes again.

Sana’s Mail: A Window into Her Life

Sana’s Mail: A Window into Her Life We recently received a bundle of Sana’s forwarded mail. It had been sent to my nephew in New York, and he finally sent it on to us. When it arrived, I couldn’t bring myself to open it, so Idris sifted through it instead, his heart heavy with each envelope. Among the letters were credit card statements, hospital notifications, and a few checks. The checks were addressed to a joint account with me, making them accessible, yet depositing them feels strange. They represent Sana’s hard-earned savings, money that now feels devoid of purpose without her here to enjoy it. Sana lived life with a larger-than-life attitude, and while she loved to shop, she always approached it with a sense of balance. She was mindful of her budget, keeping a watchful eye on her monthly limits. Her spending was never frivolous, just thoughtful, and her generosity knew no bounds. She never hesitated to spend on others, always putting their needs ahead of her own. What I admired most about her was her independence. Sana managed her rent and expenses entirely on her own, never asking us for support. She was proud of her self-sufficiency, and so were we. She loved finding deals and was a balanced shopper who cherished her hard-earned money, investing it in things that genuinely brought her joy. Now, going through her mail, I can’t help but reflect on the impermanence of life. We spend so much time worrying about expenses, planning for the future, and sometimes denying ourselves little joys, all in the name of prudence. But who knows what tomorrow holds? Sana, with her pragmatic yet joyful outlook, reminds me that it’s okay to indulge a little, to enjoy life while we can, as long as we stay within our means. She left everything behind—her savings, her carefully budgeted life—for us. It’s a stark reminder of how little material things mean in the end. What truly matters are the moments we share, the memories we create, and the love we leave behind. As I think about her, I can’t help but picture what could have been. If this tragedy hadn’t happened, she would be right here with me, shopping along Michigan Avenue, her eyes lighting up at a good deal, her laughter echoing down the bustling streets. Sana was my angel on earth, and she continues to teach me, even in her absence. Life is fragile, fleeting, and precious. We can’t take anything with us when we go, but we can leave behind a legacy of love, joy, and generosity—just like Sana did.

A Birthday Wrapped in Memories and Longing

A Birthday Wrapped in Memories and Longing Today is Idris’s birthday, a day that feels heavy with both celebration and loss. Just last year, we were eagerly preparing to visit Chicago for Thanksgiving and to mark his special day with the kids. Sana was with us then, her laughter and presence lighting up our time together. Who could have imagined that just a year later, we would be facing this milestone without her? The reality of her absence still feels wrapped in a blanket of disbelief, a truth we continue to grapple with every day. This year, the day was especially hard, particularly for Idris. She was his confidante, his spirited ally, and her absence has left a void no one can fill. To ease the weight of the day, we went out for dinner last night with Maahir and Serena to a Spanish tapas restaurant. The meal was lovely, but it carried an unspoken heaviness. Two years back, for his birthday, we had gone to a similar tapas place in Singapore with Sana. The parallels were impossible to ignore, and though none of us said it aloud, she was on all our minds. For today’s celebration, we decided to do something that felt close to her spirit. We went to the zoo—a place that brought Sana boundless joy. It was her happy place, where she felt truly free and alive, marveling at the animals and soaking in the simple wonders of life. I can still picture her at the zoo, her eyes lighting up as she admired each exhibit, her happiness infectious. To honor her memory, we wanted to spend the day doing something she loved. As we walked through the zoo, her absence was a constant ache, but it also brought us closer to her. We could feel her presence in the quiet moments, in the laughter we tried to muster, and in the shared memories that connected us. The day was a bittersweet tribute to her, a reminder of the joy she brought into our lives and the immense pain of her loss. Celebrating Idris’s birthday without her was indescribably hard. The ache of missing her is something we carry every day, but on days like these, it feels even more profound. Yet, even through the pain, there is gratitude—gratitude for the memories we shared and for the ways she continues to inspire and guide us. We miss her more than words can say, and we always will.

It’s not a dream

Waking Up to Loss: The Reality That Isn’t a Dream Grief has a way of playing tricks on the mind. Lately, I wake up each morning in that disorienting space between dream and reality, feeling as though the past few months were just a nightmare. It’s like the aftermath of a bad dream—when fear and helplessness are washed away by the comfort of waking. But unlike a nightmare, this feeling doesn’t dissipate. I keep expecting to open my eyes and feel that relief, but the ache is real, and it’s waiting for me each morning. My mother used to say that dreams about people dying were supposed to extend their lives—a strange superstition that I clung to in the early days, perhaps hoping for some hidden meaning or reassurance. But that thought, like so many others, has faded as reality sets in. I no longer wonder what the “trigger” is for my grief, because everything I see or feel seems to be a piece of Sana. Each item in the house, each activity, every plan holds a memory. This time of year is particularly raw for all of us. Idris’s birthday is just around the corner, and it feels like a sharp reminder of her absence. Sana was her father’s pride and joy. They shared a unique bond, one of mutual admiration and respect for each other’s strong opinions and thoughtful views. She always made sure she had a gift for him, and somehow, she managed to find something that was just right, even for someone as impossible to shop for as Idris. She had this wonderful way of creating something special—a present that spoke to both her love and her wit, always a little edgy and always from both her and Maahir. This year, Maahir had to take on that tradition by himself. He chose something thoughtful, but I could see the quiet sorrow in his eyes, a mix of nostalgia and longing. And for Idris, it’s hard to describe the pain I see in him. His friend is coming up from Florida to help celebrate, and we’ll do our best to mark the day. But there’s an emptiness I know will linger—her absence at his side, her laugh, her warmth. We’ll celebrate this year, but in some ways, we’ll also mourn. Each birthday, each holiday, each small tradition reminds us of her absence. And while we’ll gather together and go through the motions, we’ll carry with us the unspoken ache of missing her. It’s not a feeling that’s going away, and it’s not one I think we’d want to forget. It’s part of our love for her, a bittersweet reminder of how deeply she touched our lives.

Finding Light Amid Shadows

Spending time with Maahir and Serena has been a welcome distraction from our grief. Today, we visited the Bahá’í Temple, spent time shopping, and explored some thrift stores. There was laughter and warmth, but as with every moment since Sana’s passing, she was woven into the fabric of it all, present in spirit if not in sight. Evanston is beautiful, yet walking around its quiet streets took us back to Princeton’s downtown, where, as a family, we spent one last precious day together after Sana’s surgery. That day, Maahir had taken her to a thrift store, and we all watched as she moved slowly around, admiring small treasures that caught her eye. That day, we also took what would become our final family photo together. Idris was visibly overwhelmed then, and the memory of it broke through today, bringing fresh tears he could not hold back. Grief, with its unpredictable waves, found us again as we walked Evanston’s streets. Later, when we returned home, we gathered together and talked about Sana—our memories, our love, our loss. These past few days have been especially raw, and perhaps, in part, that’s because of a recent call from one of Maahir’s friends. His friend is deeply concerned for her roommate, a girl from Pakistan struggling with severe depression. I mentioned her situation in a previous post, and since then, I’ve been in touch with her mother, hoping to offer a sense of comfort and guidance. The conversation stirred painful memories of our own journey with Sana, her battles, and the heartache we endured by her side. Through all of this, I’ve begun to see a different side of Maahir—a maturity that has come from loss, a deep empathy, and a profound sense of responsibility that humbles me. I see his desire to protect, to nurture, to help where he can. In the silence of our home and the space Sana left behind, our family has become closer. Our conversations are more heartfelt, our hugs a little tighter, our appreciation for one another much deeper. I know this closeness is what Sana would have wanted.

Going Home: A Journey Through Grief and Family

Going Home: A Journey Through Grief and Family I finally have my tickets booked for India. This December, I'll first go to Italy to see my niece, and then travel onward to India to see my family. It feels strange, even surreal, to say it out loud. I’d been putting off booking the flights for so long, feeling the weight of emotions I couldn’t quite express. Last year, around this time, Sana was arranging her own trip to Italy, and I was finalizing my plans to visit India. Life has changed so profoundly in just a year; it’s as if the entire landscape of my world has shifted, and with it, my sense of home. In truth, the thought of facing family after everything that’s happened has felt overwhelming. For weeks I sat in front of my computer, ready to purchase the tickets, and every time, I'd freeze. It’s not a feeling I’ve ever experienced before—a deep anxiety layered with a knot of fear and sadness. It’s as though part of me simply couldn’t bear the journey. Eventually, Maahir stepped in. He came over, took the reins, and booked the tickets himself. I’m grateful he did because otherwise, I may never have managed it on my own. Usually, the prospect of going home fills me with joy. My family has always been my comfort zone, a place where I find peace and belonging. But this time, that comfort feels layered with something else—an ache, a strange fear. I’m not just returning home; I’m walking back into a life that has been marked by loss, and part of me is afraid to face it head-on. Sana had always been the one urging me to go. She’d say, “Mom, Nani is getting old, you should go see her.” It was her gentle reminder to cherish those bonds while I could. Ironically, my mom still doesn’t know about Sana, and I’ve decided to keep it that way. She lives happily in her own world, a world untouched by this tragedy, and I want to preserve that for her. In her small world, Sana still exists, vibrant and full of life, and there’s comfort in leaving it that way, even if only for now. This trip feels different from any I’ve taken before. It’s a journey not just across miles, but back into memories, into spaces once filled with joy and a sense of completeness that now feels fractured. Yet, even with the heaviness, there is a quiet resolve within me. I know I must go, to embrace my family and to honor Sana's memory in whatever small way I can. Returning home is a step toward healing, even if it comes with an undercurrent of sorrow. This journey, though bittersweet, is a reminder that life moves forward, and we continue to find meaning, even amid the silence and the echoes of what we’ve lost.

Reaching Out: The Pain and Purpose in Helping Others

Reaching Out: The Pain and Purpose in Helping Others Recently, Maahir told me that a friend of his had reached out, worried about her roommate—a young woman from Pakistan who’s been struggling with depression and anxiety. In her pain, she’s turned to alcohol, and Maahir’s friend was genuinely concerned for her well-being. As he told me her story, it stirred something in me. I knew I wanted to help. Without hesitation, I reached out to her parents, hoping to connect them with what was happening in their daughter’s life. They shared their own heartache; they’d been trying to bring her back home to Pakistan for some time. Her father even traveled to the U.S. once to bring her back, but she refused, determined to stay, convinced that leaving would mean giving up on her independence. This resonated deeply with me because it reminded me so much of our journey with Sana’s mental health. Sana, too, struggled with depression and anxiety, and living alone in New York didn’t make it easier. But like so many of her generation, she was driven by a desire to stand on her own, to live independently. No matter how much we wanted her close, she needed to feel she was on her own two feet. And while I would have moved mountains to help her, I also respected her need to try things her way. It was a constant push and pull between wanting to protect her and giving her space to grow. Talking to this young woman on the phone was a bittersweet experience. Her voice held a familiar tone—perhaps a touch of the same evasiveness Sana used to have when discussing her struggles. The pain she was holding close mirrored Sana’s, and as we spoke, memories I thought I’d buried came flooding back. It was like opening a Pandora’s box of our journey with Sana: the phone calls, the sleepless nights, the deep ache of watching a loved one struggle from afar. Yet, amid this flood of memories, there was also a quiet sense of relief. In reaching out to her family, I felt a connection to our own story, a reminder of how fragile mental health can be and how vital it is for those in pain to have support. It was as if, in a small way, I was able to do something that might make a difference—even if only to remind this young woman that she’s not alone, and there are people who care deeply for her. This experience has made me more certain that I want to do something meaningful in this space. I am ready to be there for anyone else who might need a lifeline, to use the knowledge and understanding I gained through our journey with Sana to bring hope to others. The pain of our memories will always linger, but in the midst of it, there is also a sense of purpose—a purpose I believe Sana would be proud of.

Cherishing the Moments We Have

Cherishing the Moments We Have Last year at this time, we were counting down the days to Thanksgiving, eager to spend the holiday together as a family in Chicago. Maahir and Serena had prepared their first-ever turkey, and we all gathered around to enjoy the warmth of that moment. Sana, as always, brought a glow to every gathering. I can still picture her laughing as she glided across the ice rink with Serena, clutching a hot chocolate in her gloved hands, her cheeks flushed with happiness. Thanksgiving was one of her favorite celebrations, and she loved every part of it—the traditions, the togetherness, the joy. November has always been a month of celebrations for us. From Idris’s birthday to Thanksgiving, and of course, the Black Friday shopping spree that Sana loved so much. But this year, that sense of excitement has vanished, replaced by a deep ache and a quiet, painful reality. The thought of facing these milestones without Sana feels overwhelming, like walking through a fog where each step is heavier than the last. I find myself moving robotically through routines, trying to stay afloat in a world that feels so changed. In the past, we might have taken these moments for granted, letting life’s little celebrations come and go, assuming they’d always be there. I remember last year when Idris had to leave for a business trip on Sana’s birthday. He said, “It’s just one birthday—we’ll celebrate properly next year.” But there was no next year, not for her. This loss has taught me, more deeply than I could have ever understood before, that no moment is promised. It’s so easy to put off joy, love, even appreciation, believing that there will always be time. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that every gathering, every hug, every celebration is precious. Celebrate now. Tell your loved ones how much they mean to you today. Embrace each moment as if it could be the last, because sometimes, there is no “next time.” These moments, however small, are what linger in our memories—what remain when everything else fades.

A quilt of memories

A Quilt of Memories: Remembering Sana Through Her Favorite T-Shirts Today, I received something truly special, a gift I hadn’t expected so soon: a quilt made from Sana's favorite t-shirts. Each shirt was a piece of her, a part of her daily life, and together they now form a beautiful quilt that I can wrap myself in, as if to feel her touch once again. The idea to make this quilt was suggested to me, and I’m grateful I followed through. When it came time to send the shirts, I chose carefully, picking the ones that held pieces of her routine, shirts she wore often and loved. Serena helped me cut them, as the quilt makers would use both the front and back of each shirt. The result is more beautiful than I imagined, pieced together with care, preserving little details, logos, and even labels. I found myself just holding the quilt, taking in each square as it brought back memories, realizing how this simple, stitched fabric could carry so much love and meaning. Moments like these make me reflect on the fragile nature of life. We are here for our destined time, leaving behind memories for loved ones to hold on to. Today, I’m deeply grateful to know there are people and places dedicated to preserving memories for those of us going through life’s happy and challenging times. If anyone else is considering a similar way to honor a loved one, I encourage you to check out Project Repat. They have created something that helps people like me hold on to treasured memories, and for that, I am thankful.

A Night of Nostalgia and a Family Photo Without Sana

A Night of Nostalgia and a Family Photo Without Sana Last night, our home was filled with laughter and chatter as Maahir’s friends joined us for dinner. It was a warmth I hadn’t felt in some time, and I welcomed it, but nostalgia crept in with every joyful sound. It reminded me so much of the countless gatherings with Sana and her friends, how she’d fill the room with her own vibrant energy. In preparing dinner, I found myself instinctively making one of her favorite dishes, a comforting bowl of khow suey, without even consciously realizing why I’d chosen it. Maahir and Serena love it too, but it was Sana who had adored this meal, always savoring each spoonful. As we gathered around the table, I almost felt her presence in the room—a comforting yet bittersweet silhouette among us. Her laughter echoed in my mind, woven into the sounds of everyone around me. For a moment, it was as if she was right there, a part of this gathering, just as she had been so many times before. Today, we went for a family photo session, a special invitation that came from a friend. We all dressed in blue and white, a color scheme I’d suggested without realizing how deeply it was tied to a memory. The last time we had a family photo shoot with Sana was at a family reunion, and I have this cherished photo of her and me, both in blue jeans and white shirts. It wasn’t until I saw us all in those colors today that it hit me—this was how we’d last posed together, a family complete with her in it. The session was beautiful, with each of us—Idris, Maahir, Serena, and even Mia, our family pet—capturing new memories together. But as I looked around, there was an emptiness that lingered, a piece of our family missing. A family photo, without Sana in it, feels like it could never truly capture our family. Her absence is both present and distant, woven into every joyful moment and every smile, reminding us of what we hold close to our hearts. These moments bring joy and sadness in equal measure. As we move forward, I’m realizing that the presence of loved ones, the laughter, and even the memories tied to simple choices like a color or a favorite dish, are what keep us connected. In every shared experience, we carry her spirit, a quiet presence guiding us through each moment of both happiness and longing.

New Gathering: Honoring Memories, Embracing New Connections

New Gathering: Honoring Memories, Embracing New Connections Sana’s friends were an integral part of our lives. I always made an extra effort to have them over, spending time with each of them as if they were part of the family. It was never just about opening our doors for her friends; it was about building a bond, one that went beyond Sana and extended into our own unique connections. Her friends held a special place in our hearts, not only because of the joy they brought her but because, in many ways, they became like an extended family to us. This connection with her friends was different than what I had with Maahir’s. With Maahir, my relationship with his friends was more casual; I knew them well, and they were always welcome, but I hadn’t built that same close-knit bond. As parents, we like to think that we’re always doing equally for each of our kids, but, over time, you realize that you often end up doing more for the one who needs you most. For Sana, who was naturally quieter and more introverted, her friendships were significant lifelines. As she grew, I could see how those connections helped her, providing comfort and companionship, especially as her struggle with anxiety became more pronounced. In her later years, depression shadowed her, and while she was incredibly strong, the need for support deepened. Her battle was a winding one; finding the right medications was difficult, and the journey was rocky. I often spent more time with her friends because I knew how much they helped her, offering a kind of support that even I couldn’t fully give. In caring for them, I was caring for her in a way. Now, almost five months after losing her, I’ve invited Maahir and Serena’s friends for dinner this Saturday. I find myself feeling the same joy and energy that I once had when planning something for Sana’s friends. It’s like there’s a part of me that wants to bring back those echoes of laughter and warmth that used to fill our home. I remember the light in Sana’s eyes whenever her friends would arrive, the easy banter, and the sound of pure, joyful chatter that would fill the house. That atmosphere was a gift, a reminder of the love and community that surrounded her. I hope to recreate that, even if just a little, this Saturday with Maahir’s friends. It’s my way of weaving a new layer of connection with them, of filling our home with laughter and shared moments once again. I want to honor those joyful memories with Sana’s friends while building new ones with Maahir’s circle, finding comfort in the laughter and chatter that reminds me, even if briefly, of all the beautiful moments we shared. In gathering together, I’m reminded that our connections to others are ever-evolving, and that even amid loss, we can continue to nurture and grow new bonds. It’s a small act, but one that feels healing, and, in some way, brings us closer to the warmth we once knew.