A Mother’s Day Without Sana, But Never Without Her Love

A Mother’s Day Without Sana, But Never Without Her Love Mother’s Day is here again — but this year, everything feels different. This is the first one I am facing without my daughter Sana, and I can’t begin to describe how impossible that feels. She was always the one who reminded everyone that Mother’s Day was meant to be marked and celebrated. It wasn’t just about gifts or cards for her — it was about making sure I felt appreciated and loved, especially on that day. Two years ago, while away for a friend’s wedding weekend, she secretly got Maahir to order an iPad for me. I still remember the surprise, the thoughtfulness, the joy in her voice as she told me it was from her. She always made sure I felt special — and more importantly, seen. That was the kind of daughter she was. Today, that memory feels both comforting and heartbreaking. Because today, I didn’t hear her voice or feel her arms around me. But somehow, she still found her way to me. Sana’s dear friend, Ieva, reached out with a beautiful and moving gesture. She sent over flowesr for Mother’s Day — a sweet thought in itself — but what touched me deeply was what she added. She signed it in her name… and in Sana’s. Seeing my daughter’s name there, added with love and intention, was like receiving a whisper from the other side. It reminded me that even though Sana is no longer physically present, the people who knew her still carry her memory — and they carry her forward, with me. Later in the evening, we were invited to dinner at the home of Maahir and Serena’s friends. There, I was met with yet another quiet act of grace. A small avocado plant had been grown and nurtured in Sana’s memory — and they gifted it to me. I stood holding that little plant, overcome by emotion. It was more than a gift. It was a living symbol of remembrance, of care, of Sana’s enduring presence in the lives of others. Tomorrow, we’ll gather again. Maahir and Serena will be with me, and yes — there will be an empty chair at the table, one we are leaving for Sana. It may look empty, but to me, it will always be full — full of her laughter, her mischief, her beautiful heart. That chair represents the space she still occupies in my life and in my soul. They say that grief is love with nowhere to go. But I’ve come to realize that isn’t quite true. My love for Sana finds its way into these moments, into these memories, into these offerings from those who loved her too. She may not be here to plan Mother’s Day anymore, but she’s still planning it — just differently. Even in her absence, she surrounds me. And on this Mother’s Day, I hold onto that.