Ten Months Without Sana: An Eid Without HeR

It has been ten months today. Ten months since Sana left us, yet it still feels surreal. At this time last year, she was home with us, trying to be strong, as she always had been. Even in her weakest moments, she carried a quiet resilience, never wanting us to worry too much. At night, she would sleep beside me, and there were times when she would reach for my hand in the dark, holding it gently. “Mom, I love you,” she would whisper. Those words still echo in my ears, wrapping around my heart like a bittersweet melody. Maahir and Mia are staying with us for a few days while Serena is away. It’s comforting to have them close, but the absence of Sana is stark. There is an emptiness in our home that nothing can quite fill. On Sunday, we will celebrate Eid. Or at least, we will try. Sana loved Eid. She loved the excitement of it all—dressing up in beautiful outfits, sharing laughter, and most of all, collecting Eidi, the cherished cash gifts given to children. When they were younger, we would hop from one Eid party to another, and collecting Eidi was the highlight of the celebrations. Those were simpler, joy-filled days, untouched by the weight of grief. This year, Eid will be quiet. No big gatherings, no endless rounds of laughter, no Sana beaming with excitement. Just us, trying to make sense of life without her, carrying the ache of her absence through every moment. Grief doesn’t fade with time—it simply becomes a part of you, woven into your being. The pain doesn’t lessen; you just learn how to carry it. But on days like today, and on celebrations like Eid, the weight of it feels unbearable. There is no end to this ache in my heart. And perhaps, there never will be.