Preparing for Eid with Family

Eid was just a day away, and the house was already buzzing with the kind of energy that only came around during this special time of year. The scent of cinnamon and rosewater floated through the air, mingling with the sound of laughter and the clatter of pots in the kitchen. This was the kind of joy that couldn’t be bought — it was made, carefully crafted with love, patience, and family.

Amina stood in front of the mirror, brushing her daughter's hair with care. Seven-year-old Laila wiggled excitedly on the stool, barely able to contain her enthusiasm.

“Do you think Grandma will like my dress?” she asked, looking down at the lavender outfit laid across the bed.

“She’ll love it,” Amina said, smiling. “Just like she loves you, no matter what you wear.”

In the background, the living room had been transformed into a mini workshop. Her husband, Sameer, and their teenage son, Rayyan, were untangling fairy lights and testing lanterns. Every now and then, a light would flicker to life and they’d both cheer, only to groan a second later when another bulb failed to cooperate.

“Dad, this is the third strand with a broken light. Can we just buy new ones?” Rayyan sighed.

“And miss the fun of fixing them ourselves?” Sameer grinned, holding up a tiny replacement bulb triumphantly. “This is tradition, my son.”

In the kitchen, the real magic was happening. Amina’s mother, affectionately known as Nani, was busy kneading dough for sweet parathas while soft nasheeds played from the Bluetooth speaker on the counter. Her hands moved like they had done this a thousand times — because they had. Each movement, each fold, was muscle memory born from years of Eid mornings and family feasts.

“Add a little more cardamom,” she called to Amina, who was carefully stirring the sheer khurma on the stove. “Not too much — just enough to remind them of last year.”

That was Nani’s secret: everything she cooked held a memory.

As the day went on, every corner of the house saw a little more love. Laila and her cousins made paper stars and crescent moons, which they hung from the curtain rods. Rayyan vacuumed while sneaking glances at his phone, waiting for a reply from his best friend. Amina arranged Eid gifts in neat little piles — new prayer mats, colorful bangles, wrapped toys, and envelopes of Eidi.

Sameer, ever the enthusiast, was now outside hanging a “Eid Mubarak” banner across the porch, occasionally yelling into the house to make sure it was centered.

“It’s crooked!” Amina shouted through the window, laughing.

“No, your angle is crooked!” Sameer yelled back.

That was their usual back-and-forth. Their way of saying, I love you, and I’m glad we get to do this together.

By late afternoon, the kitchen table looked like a painting. Dishes from every family member’s specialty: Amina’s spicy kebabs, Nani’s famous meat pies, Rayyan’s attempt at chocolate-dipped dates, and even a box of baklava from their neighbor, Mrs. Ali, who had dropped it off with a warm smile and a cheerful “Eid Mubarak in advance!”

As they sat down to test a few of the sweets — strictly for quality control, of course — the conversation turned nostalgic. Stories of past Eids flowed like tea: the time Rayyan got lost in the mosque crowd as a toddler and was found by the imam; when Sameer accidentally gave away all the Eidi to the neighbor’s kids and had to borrow money from Amina’s purse; and the year they all wore matching outfits that turned out way too bright, earning them the title “The Highlighters” from Rayyan’s friends.

The stories made them laugh, but also reminded them of how much they’d grown. How many Eids they’d seen together. How the preparations were less about perfection and more about presence — being there for each other, creating something meaningful together.

As the sun began to set, golden light poured into the living room, catching on the decorations and making everything glow. Laila climbed into Amina’s lap, already sleepy from the day’s excitement.

“Are we ready for Eid now, Mama?” she mumbled.

Amina kissed the top of her head. “Almost, my love. Just one more thing.”

She motioned for everyone to gather — Nani, Sameer, Rayyan, the cousins who had come over to help. They sat together in a circle on the carpet, and Amina led a short dua.

“Ya Allah,” she whispered, “thank You for the roof over our heads, the food on our table, and the love in this room. Let tomorrow be a day of peace, of joy, and of remembrance.”

Ameen.

The house was quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, the bustle resumed — ironing clothes, laying out prayer mats, preparing charity packets to hand out at the mosque in the morning.

But at the center of it all was a deep sense of gratitude.

Eid, they realized again and again, was not just about the prayer or the feast or the clothes. It was about the journey leading up to it — the laughter while decorating, the lessons passed down in the kitchen, the teamwork, the silly arguments, the shared excitement.

It was about preparing not just the house, but the heart.

And in that sense, their Eid had already begun.