The Hands That Never Let Go”

The evening sky was turning orange when Amina stood by the kitchen window, her hands still wet from washing the dishes. The sound of laughter drifted in from outside — children running home from school, their shoes tapping rhythmically against the dusty road. Once upon a time, her son’s laughter was among them.

But now, the house was quiet.

A single photo frame sat on the shelf — a young boy in a school uniform, his smile bright, his eyes full of dreams. She touched the glass softly, her fingertips tracing the lines of his face. “You’d be seventeen now,” she whispered.

Her son, Bilal, had always been her reason to keep going. After her husband died in an accident when Bilal was only three, life had turned gray. She worked long hours as a cleaner in a nearby school, saving every coin to make sure Bilal never missed a meal or a class.

He never complained. He’d wait outside her workplace in the evenings, his small hands clutching her scarf, saying, “Let’s go home, Mama. You look tired.”

Those moments were her world — his tiny voice, his laughter, the way he fell asleep on her lap no matter how noisy the night was.

Then came the storm — the sickness no doctor could name. It started with a fever, then weakness, and finally endless hospital visits. The doctors spoke in words that didn’t make sense: “rare condition,” “expensive treatment,” “no guarantee.”

But Amina didn’t give up. She sold her jewelry, took loans, cleaned more homes than her body could bear. Her hands cracked, her back ached, but she smiled every morning when she saw him awake. “You’ll get better,” she’d whisper. “Mama promised.”

He believed her. Because children always believe their mothers.

One night, when the hospital lights were dim and the air smelled of medicine and sadness, Bilal looked at her and said, “Mama, when I get better, can I buy you a big house? With a garden?”

She nodded through her tears. “Only if I can plant roses there.”

He smiled weakly. “Then it’s a deal.”

But the deal never happened.

The next morning, when the nurse walked in, Amina was holding him, rocking him gently as if he were only asleep. Her tears had dried by the time the doctor came. She looked at her son’s face — peaceful, free of pain — and whispered, “You kept your promise, my love. You gave me the whole world.”

Days turned into months. People told her to move on. “You’re still young,” they said. “Life goes on.” But how does a mother move on from the very heartbeat that once echoed inside her?

Still, she kept living — quietly, humbly. She continued to work, to cook for the neighbor’s children, to smile when others smiled. Yet every night, she would sit by the window, staring at the stars. Somewhere up there, she imagined her boy, building his garden, waiting for her.

One evening, as she walked home from work, she passed by the school where Bilal used to study. A little boy dropped his bag on the ground and began to cry. Without thinking, she knelt down, wiped his tears, and tied his shoelaces.

“Thank you, Auntie,” the boy said. His smile — so much like Bilal’s — made her heart ache and heal at once.

As he ran off, she whispered softly, “May your mother never have to cry for you.”

That night, she lit a candle by the photo frame and spoke as if he were still listening. “I met a boy today, Bilal. He reminded me of you. And for the first time, I didn’t cry. I think you’d be proud.”

The candle flickered gently, and a soft breeze brushed her cheek — like a tiny kiss from heaven.

She smiled, looking up at the sky filled with stars. “I’ll see you in the garden, my love,” she whispered. “Save me a rose.”