My mom called, sounding exhausted, and asked me to pick up my 9-year-old brother Arman from school. When we got home, she looked drained and went to rest, so I stayed with Arman. We made sandwiches and watched cartoons, but my mom still didn’t come out of her room. When I checked on her, her breathing felt too soft. That night, she skipped dinner and said she had a headache; the next morning she was still in bed and too tired to work. I called her boss, who wasn’t surprised and told her to rest.
For three days, she barely left her room. I took care of Arman’s school routine. When she finally joined us for tea on the fourth day, she revealed she’d been struggling and that their dad—who left when I was 13—had actually died two years ago and had another family. She’d been angry and waiting for him. I comforted her.
Slowly, she became more present but calmer. A man named Mr. Karim, who knew our dad, repaid an old debt to her, which lifted her spirits. Mom began going out more and joined community activities. One day she decided we should fix up my grandfather’s old house so we wouldn’t pay rent any more. We renovated it over three months, feeling like we were starting fresh.
In the attic, we found a letter from my dad explaining he’d hidden money for the kids. We found $13,200 under the floorboards and put it into a college fund for Arman. Life didn’t become perfect, but it improved. Mom smiled more, I got a bookstore job, and Arman started drawing comics.
We began secretly helping struggling neighbors each month, seeing kindness come back to us. After three years, Mom started an online baking business and met Faiz, a kind widower. They married in a small backyard ceremony. Arman said he now had “two dads in heaven and one here.”
Life still had bumps, but we were stronger, kinder, and more whole than before.