Busy Hands, Silent Heart — A Father's Love You’ll Never Hear About

7:00 AM — Sabya, Saudi Arabia.

The sun hasn’t even softened yet, but the heat is already biting through his work clothes.

He lifts a cold steel hammer, wearing gloves torn from weeks of labor. His back aches, his stomach growls — but he smiles anyway. Because three little faces live inside his heart.

He hasn’t had breakfast.

Just a cup of tea and two glasses of water.

That’s enough for him — it has to be.

Because he’s not working for himself.

He’s working for his daughters.

He left Peshawar five years ago. Back then, he had a dream of returning home in two years with savings, gifts, and gold. But life doesn’t always follow dreams. It rewrites them.

Now, his monthly salary is just 3,000 Riyals, and most of it disappears before he even touches it:

200 riyals for his wife's medicines

500 riyals for school fees

1,000+ riyals in small debts and groceries

And every month, he tries to save just enough to buy one gram of gold — a silent promise for his daughters' futures

Some men collect wealth.

He collects gold — tiny pieces of his heart molded into dreams.

He doesn't wear designer clothes.

He wears his sacrifice like a second skin.

His hands are calloused, his nails chipped, but his soul is polished with love.

Every night, he opens WhatsApp just to see his daughters’ faces. They send him voice notes:

“Baba, look! I got 10/10 in math.”

“Baba, I miss you!”

“When will you come back?”

He replies with a smile.

Never with the truth.

Because the truth is heavy.

"I want to come home.

I’m tired of this concrete.

I’m tired of eating onions and dry bread.

I’m tired of pretending I’m okay."

But fathers don’t say these things.

They endure them.

He used to chew naswar (tobacco) to kill the pain.

Until one night, his youngest daughter said on a video call:

"Baba, your teeth look dirty."

That was it.

That one innocent sentence crushed his last escape.

From that day, he quit.

Now he chews saunf — fennel seeds — not to freshen his breath, but to kill his sadness quietly.

He works under the sun with no umbrella, no water cooler, and no air-conditioned break room.

His lunch is a piece of roti and some old chutney wrapped in newspaper.

But even while he eats, he’s thinking about how to pay for his eldest daughter’s school uniform next month.

He’s never taken a vacation.

Never spent a night in a hotel.

He’s walked miles under the sun, but never walked through a shopping mall.

His luxury is a 5-minute video call at night — where he pretends that everything is fine, so his children don’t worry.

No one ever says thank you to him.

No one ever says “Well done.”

He doesn’t need applause.

He just wants his daughters to grow up safe, educated, and never needing to beg anyone for anything.

When he prays, he doesn’t ask for money.

He asks for strength:

"Ya Allah, give me enough health to stand one more day.

Enough courage to smile for them.

Enough Rizq to give them the life I never had."

If you ever visit Sabya, and see a man wearing a dusty helmet, his face dark from the sun, sitting against a wall during his short break —

Don’t pity him.

Respect him.

Because that man is not just a laborer.

He is a father who turned his body into bricks, so his daughters could have a roof.

He is a hero without a cape — who builds palaces with prayers.

In a world full of noise, he is the silent heart beating for three little girls.

And though the world may never know his name…

They will live his legacy.