When Love Turns Blind

Every morning, the door of a narrow, dusty alley in Pakistan creaks open to reveal Razia Begum—a mother whose eyes no longer dream; they only wait. Her son, Faisal, was once her pride, the jewel among eight daughters. But love without guidance turned him into someone she barely recognizes today.

This is not fiction. It is lived by countless families: a boy who never heard “no,” a son shielded by love, unprepared for life’s trials.

A Son Raised Among Daughters

Faisal was different, not for talent, but for being the only boy. While his sisters worked by dim lantern light, studying and sweeping floors, Faisal was carried in Razia’s arms, excused from chores, and showered with treats.

Razia worked tirelessly in two homes, scrubbing floors and washing dishes. Yet she always returned with a small packet of biscuits for her son. “My prince must be tired,” she would whisper, even if he had done nothing all day.

His father, Saleem, a daily wage laborer, brought toys, cricket bats, or small watches. “He’s our son,” he said to his daughters, “he needs a strong hand, a strong heart.”

In their minds, indulgence was love.

The First Cracks

By 14, Faisal’s schoolbag gathered dust. He dropped out silently, with no questions asked. “School isn’t for everyone,” Razia muttered, soothing her own guilt.

He stopped accompanying his father to the market or mosque. He slept late, wandered the streets, and returned home with red eyes and empty pockets.

The sisters noticed first. “Ammi, Faisal bhai smells strange,” whispered one. Razia shushed her. “He’s tired. He’s growing,” she said.

But love cannot hide the scent of hashish.

By 16, Faisal was seen with local boys—some thieves, some drug users. His parents still hoped it was a phase. They fed him, gave him cash, and avoided confrontation.

From Addiction to Theft

The first time money went missing, Razia blamed herself. When utensils vanished, Saleem scolded a daughter by mistake.

“He’s our son,” Saleem said. “We must be patient.”

Patience without action is helplessness.

Then came the day a shopkeeper dragged Faisal home, accusing him of stealing chocolate bars and SIM cards. Razia collapsed. Her prince had become a stranger.

Rehab and Relapse

The local imam advised rehabilitation. They borrowed money, sold Razia’s gold earrings, and Faisal stayed in the center for four months. Visits were weekly, filled with food, tears, and hesitant hope.

For a short while, he was quiet, prayed a little, ate silently. His sisters dared to hope.

But like a plant with weak roots, he fell back into addiction. Pills, possibly heroin, replaced hashish. He learned to lie, manipulate, and guilt his parents into silence.

A Home Turned Cold

Neighbors whispered: “That boy steals from his mother,” “So blind, that family.”

Faisal’s sisters no longer invited friends home. Marriage proposals stopped coming. Younger daughters wept at school from ridicule.

Saleem stopped going to work consistently, sitting outside with a cigarette, watching his son stagger in and out. Razia went days without speaking, her back bent more from sorrow than age.

Love had become silent fear.

The Final Theft

One afternoon, while Razia was away and Saleem at the mosque, Faisal stole everything: the gas cylinder, the TV, even the family Quran, to sell for drugs.

When Razia returned, she didn’t scream. She sat on the floor, removed her scarf, and wept.

“He even took Allah’s book,” she whispered.

Saleem walked out to find Faisal. He returned with bruises and a torn slipper. “He won’t come home,” he said.

A Stranger in Their Midst

Today, Faisal is 21. No education. No job. Addicted, possibly a dealer. He comes home occasionally, asks for money, threatens the house. His parents do not recognize him. He doesn’t pray. He doesn’t speak with softness. His eyes are empty.

Razia whispers to neighbors, “I gave him too much love. I thought I was protecting him. I destroyed him.”

Saleem counts his prayer beads, silent, regretful. “The Prophet ﷺ taught balance. We forgot. And now we are being shown.”

Their daughters have grown strong, responsible, and kind—but silent, carrying the collective pain of a brother lost to blind love.

Lessons in Parenting

Islam emphasizes tawazun—balance—in relationships, especially in parenting.

“O you who have believed, protect yourselves and your families from a Fire…” (Surah At-Tahrim, 66:6)

Protection is not indulgence. Discipline and guidance teach right from wrong.

“Each of you is a shepherd, and each of you is responsible for his flock…” (Sahih Bukhari)

Blind love is rain without a roof—it floods rather than nourishes.

• Balance is Mercy: Excessive love without correction breeds entitlement. Children need boundaries.
• Discipline is Care: Allowing freedom without guidance is neglect. Real love trains the heart, mind, and soul.
• Bad Company Kills: Even good children can be corrupted by toxic friends.
• Act Early: Rebellion, idleness, dishonesty must be addressed immediately, before cracks turn into collapse.

A Mother’s Du’a

Every night, Razia prays—not just for Faisal to return home, but for his senses and faith. She asks Allah to forgive her missteps and protect other families from similar grief.

Conclusion

This is not just one family’s story. It is the story of every home where love becomes blind and guidance is forgotten. Faisal did not become lost overnight. His parents did not fail intentionally.

Parenting is an amanah—a sacred trust. When broken, consequences ripple through this world and the next.

Love your children—but love them with boundaries, purpose, and reminders of Allah. So they do not become strangers in their own homes—or to themselves.