''The Last Gift''

It was the morning of Eid, and the sun rose gently over the small town of Al Noor. The call to prayer echoed softly in the distance, mingling with the rustle of new clothes being laid out, the scent of cardamom-laced tea, and the warmth of freshly baked bread. In every home, laughter and light filled the air—every home except one.

In the modest, timeworn house at the end of Jasmine Street, Mariam sat by the window in silence. Her hands, speckled with age, clutched a small, wrapped box tied with golden ribbon. It had been sitting on her bedside table for months—untouched, unopened. It was her last gift to her son, Imran.

Imran hadn’t come home in five years.

Their last conversation had been bitter, sharp with words that neither could take back. He had left in anger, determined to build a life away from the traditions he felt were stifling him. Mariam had watched him leave with her heart breaking, but her pride would not let her call him back.

She had written letters—many of them—but they had gone unanswered. Then, months ago, she fell ill. The doctor had given her a quiet diagnosis: heart failure. Manageable for a time, but it was clear she didn’t have many Eids left.

That was when she began preparing the gift. It was a simple thing—a small box containing a ring. Not just any ring, but the one Imran’s father had given her when they were first married. It had been passed down for generations. Imran was her only child. It was meant for him.

As she sat by the window, watching families walking to the mosque, her neighbor Fatima knocked gently and entered with a tray.

“I brought you some kahwa and dates,” Fatima said softly, setting the tray down. Her eyes landed on the gift in Mariam’s lap.

“Still waiting?” she asked gently.

Mariam smiled, tired but warm. “He will come. If not today, then… another Eid.”

Fatima hesitated. “You know, even if he doesn't come, you gave him something already—your love. You did your part.”

Mariam nodded, but her gaze stayed on the path outside.

—

In a city miles away, Imran stood in his apartment, the morning sun slanting across his desk. He hadn’t decorated, hadn’t even bought new clothes for Eid. Something felt wrong about celebrating.

In his hands was one of his mother’s letters. He had kept them all, though he had never replied. This one had arrived three weeks ago.

“My dear Imran,” it began, “Eid is coming soon. I don't know how many more Eids I have left, but this one feels important. There’s a gift I’ve kept for you. I hope one day you’ll come and receive it—not because it’s valuable, but because it carries the weight of our family’s love. I forgive you. Please forgive me, too.”

His chest tightened as he read the words again. Guilt, regret, longing—they swirled inside him like a storm. How many years had he wasted in silence, stubbornness, and pride?

He looked out the window at the clear sky. A sudden resolve washed over him. He had missed too much already. If he left now, he could be home by nightfall.

—

By sunset, the streets of Al Noor had quieted. The children were inside, sharing sweets. The sky burned orange as the final light of the day dimmed.

Mariam had dozed off in her chair by the window, the gift still in her lap.

Then came a knock at the door.

Fatima, still nearby, opened it—and gasped.

Imran stood there, older, leaner, eyes full of something heavy and fragile. He carried no bags, just the burden of lost years.

“I need to see my mother,” he said quietly.

Fatima nodded, tears in her eyes.

He stepped into the familiar house, every creak of the floorboards like a memory echoing back. When he saw her—small and asleep in the chair—he felt the weight of all the things he hadn’t said.

“Mama,” he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly. For a moment, she just stared. Then, her lips trembled.

“Imran?”

He knelt beside her. “I’m sorry. I should’ve come sooner.”

She smiled, a single tear escaping. “You came. That’s all that matters.”

He took her hand, frail and cool in his. Then she gestured toward the box in her lap.

“I kept this for you.”

He opened it carefully, revealing the old family ring, nestled in a velvet pouch. His throat tightened.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

“It’s yours,” she said. “And so is my blessing.”

They sat together as the evening deepened, their hands entwined.

—

That Eid, no grand feast was laid out. No fireworks lit the sky. But inside that little house on Jasmine Street, something far more powerful took place: forgiveness, reunion, and the quiet healing of hearts.

Imran stayed for weeks after that, helping care for his mother, cooking her favorite meals, telling her stories of his travels and regrets.

And when Mariam passed peacefully three months later, Imran wore the ring to her funeral. Not just as a memory of his mother—but as a reminder that the greatest gifts aren’t wrapped in ribbon or passed in silence.

They are moments of courage, of forgiveness, of returning home when it’s almost too late—but not quite.

That was the last gift.