A Night of Prayers and Unanswered Questions

Last year, around this time, Sana came home from the hospital. It felt like a moment of victory, a turning point we had desperately prayed for. We were in our New York apartment when Idris brought her home in an Uber. I remember the anticipation, the overwhelming joy of believing that the worst was finally behind us. I wanted her homecoming to feel special. I had ordered a dozen helium balloons that read Welcome Home, each one a small symbol of hope. I cooked a homemade meal, carefully preparing dishes I knew she loved, eager to nourish her back to strength. Sana looked dazed as she stepped inside, her body still weary from the fight, but I know she was relieved. She was home. And we truly believed that meant things were getting better. Little did we know—could we have ever imagined?—that the worst was still waiting to unfold. Tomorrow is a deeply sacred night in Ramadan, a night when the faithful stay awake in prayer, believing in the power of divine mercy. Last year, while Sana rested in her room, Idris and I prayed in the next room, tears streaming down my face as I begged God for her recovery. Please, just let her heal. Let her live. They say prayers on this night never go unanswered. But did He hear mine? I try to console myself with the thought that maybe He did. Maybe He gave us those last precious weeks—a window of time to love her, care for her, cherish her presence before she was taken from us. Maybe that was the answer, though not the one I had pleaded for. And yet, as this holy night approaches once again, I wonder: What do I pray for now? My heart aches with the weight of all that could have been, the life that should have continued. If she were still here, how different would this night feel? The silence of her absence is deafening. But perhaps my prayers are no longer about asking. Perhaps now, they are simply about remembering—about holding onto the love, the laughter, and the fleeting moments of grace that grief cannot take away.