extended family

All about how to stay connected, strengthen ties and talk politics with your big, happy extended family.

The Brotherhood That Broke and Healed
by Ikhtisham Hayat A man once said, “My brother and I were enemies from childhood. Even as we grew older, our rivalry did not fade.” Their mother—may Allah have mercy on her—would always plead with them: “My children! You are brothers. Apart from each other, you have no one. People may support you, but they’re still just people. A brother is a brother.” Their father—may Allah have mercy on him too—remained perpetually upset with them. He spoke to them formally, distant and disappointed. His only reason: their endless enmity. He would often say to their mother: “May Allah guide them. One day, they will understand the value of being brothers. And they’ll remember my words. When hardship strikes, they won’t call a friend or companion. The voice that escapes their lips will be, ‘Brother!’” Time passed. Both brothers married, but instead of maturing, their conflict worsened. Whenever their wives gathered at their parents’ home, quarrels erupted. The parents grew anxious, worried that supporting one son might turn the other against them. Then came the first blow—their mother passed away. Five years later, their father followed. They sold the family property, each took his share, and they drifted apart. No contact, no concern. Even their children, as they grew, could not recognize their cousins if they passed them on the street. And then came the day that changed everything. One of the brothers, the narrator of this story, invested everything he had in the stock market. It all vanished—wiped out in a moment of greed. Life spiraled downward. He was diagnosed with diabetes, which led to paralysis. The pressure and emotional burden took his sight in one eye. His entire fortune gone, replaced by pain, weakness, and regret. One dawn, during Fajr prayer, he sat in sujood, sobbing as he made du’a: “Ya Rabb, have mercy on my parents. Have mercy on my helplessness. And bring goodness into the lives of my children.” A few days later, an old friend and childhood neighbor found him. He asked how life was, then returned a week later. “I have a favor to ask,” the friend said. “Go ahead,” he replied. The friend handed him a cheque. “Here. Half a million Riyals. Use this to restart your life. Consider it a loan. Pay it back only when Allah eases your hardships.” Tears welled in the man’s eyes. He accepted the cheque, started a small business, and Allah opened doors for him once again. His health improved, the money grew, and every day he thanked Allah. Then one day, that same friend returned. “I need to tell you something important.” “If it’s about the loan,” the man said, “don’t worry. Allah has improved my condition. I’m ready to return it.” “It’s not about the money,” the friend said, his eyes soft. “It’s bigger than that.” He took a deep breath and added, “That money wasn’t from me. It was from your brother.” The world stood still. “He said, ‘Give this to my brother. And for God’s sake, don’t tell him it’s from me. I can’t bear to see him suffer.’” The friend continued: “Now your brother is in the hospital—critical condition. He’s fighting between life and death. Go to him. Apologize. He loves you more than you know.” Without a second thought, the man rushed to the hospital, tears streaming down his cheeks, washing away years of bitterness. He held his brother’s hand, kissed his forehead, and whispered: “Forgive me, please…” His brother slowly opened his eyes, tears in them too. He placed his hand on the narrator’s chest—and then, in that very moment, he took his last breath. He had been waiting. Waiting for the hug, the apology, the return. Today, that man visits his brother’s grave every Friday. He cries and remembers the words of his mother: “My children, you are brothers.” She was right. When he was at his lowest, no friend came to help. Only his brother did—silently, selflessly.
By Ikhtisham Hayat7 months ago in Families
The Last Cup of Tea
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By Ikram Ullah7 months ago in Families
The Hilarious Chronicles That Changed Everything: Why Millions of Kids Can't Put Down This Comic-Diary Masterpiece
Picture this: you're a middle schooler trying to survive the social jungle of adolescence, armed with nothing but your wit, a questionable sense of style, and a diary that you definitely don't want anyone to discover. Sound familiar? If you've ever felt like you're just trying to make it through another day of school without becoming the laughingstock of your grade, then you've found your literary soulmate in Greg Heffley's adventures.
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The Day the Internet Broke — And We Actually Talked to Each Other
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By Huzaifa Dzine7 months ago in Families
Lessons from Dad, Dreams of a Son
The sun was just beginning to rise over the quiet village of Shantipur. The birds had not yet finished their morning song when Arjun, a 17-year-old boy with curious eyes and a restless heart, sat at the edge of the fields, watching the golden light spread across the land. It was his favorite part of the day—where silence spoke more than words, and the scent of dew still hung in the air.
By farhan7 months ago in Families
The Documents You Can’t File
“Sir, what papers or documents are required to place my father to the old-age care facility?” the young man asked casually, unaware of the weight that question carried. ‎ ‎The manager at the care home , an elderly man himself, paused and took a deep sigh. He looked at the man, not with anger but with a deep concern that had come from years of seeing parents being left behind. ‎ ‎His response was unexpected, not a list of identification papers or health certificates, but a tender, soul-stirring answer. ‎ ‎“You will need a few very special documents,” the manager began, his voice steady but soft. ‎ ‎“First, a photograph of your father taking your mother to the hospital the day you were born. That moment captured the beginning of his greatest responsibility. ‎ ‎Second, you’ll need the picture from the day of your birth, when your father held you in his arms for the first time. His eyes were filled with tears, not of pain, but pure joy. He whispered the call to prayer in your tiny ears, planting the seeds of faith, love, and protection. ‎ ‎Next, bring the image of him returning home from work every evening, too tired but smiling, just to see you safe, sound and healthy. He never told you how his legs ached, or how his back hurt, because your comfort was his cure. ‎ ‎You must also show the picture of that cold winter night when he rushed you to the hospital, wrapped in his shawl, not even thinking for a moment about himself. His hands trembled, not from the cold, but from worry and fear of losing a part of his soul. ‎ ‎There’s another image you’ll need, the one where he sits by your bedside, sleepless, checking your temperature over and over. That night he didn’t sleep and he didn’t eat. His only concern was whether your fever had dropped. ‎ ‎Don’t forget the silent photographs of all those unseen moments when he bore the burdens of the world just so he could send you to school, buy you new books, and accomplish your every small desire. Even when the world didn’t give him rest, he found comfort in your smile. ‎ ‎You’ll need the one where he stared at the calendar a month before Eid, bothering about how to afford your new clothes. He didn’t buy anything for himself, but made sure your bag was filled. You slept hugging your new dress and shoes, he slept worrying about next month’s bills. ‎ ‎There’s also that invisible photo, when he stood outside the door, wiping his tears before entering the house because he didn’t want his children to see his broken spirit. ‎ ‎You’ll need the image where he silently borrowed money to pay your school fees or buy your first smartphone. He expected nothing from you, no gifts, no luxuries, only a little time, a phone call maybe, a visit. But even that faded away. ‎ ‎And finally,” the manager said, his voice now quivering, “the photograph of him saving every penny for your wedding. He sold his belongings, gave up his comforts, so you could start a new life. A life where you, too, would one day become a father.” ‎ ‎The room was quiet now. The man who had come with an easy question now stood frozen. No words came out of his mouth. His eyes welled up, lips trembled. He remembered those very moments, some real, some forgotten. He had never captured them in a camera, but they were etched in his memory, hidden under the dust of time and neglect. ‎ ‎The manager stood, walked over to him, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. ‎ ‎“My son,” he said kindly, “these documents can’t be printed, nor can they be signed. They are not found in drawers or files. They live in your heart. If you’ve truly lost them, then maybe your father’s place is here. But if they still exist somewhere inside you then go back home. Don't file your father away like a burden. He is not just an old man. He is the reason you are standing here.” ‎ ‎Tears rolled down the man’s cheeks freely now. He lowered his head in shame. All the images began to flood his mind, not as paper or files, but as feelings, sacrifices, and quiet acts of love that he had once taken for granted. ‎ ‎He turned without saying a word and stepped out of the office. He didn’t stop. Not until he reached his car. He sat behind the wheel and stared out the windshield. ‎ ‎A few minutes later, he reached the place he once called home. ‎ ‎As he entered, he saw his father sitting quietly in the corner, the light in his eyes dimmer than before. The old man looked up in surprised, confused. ‎ ‎The son dropped to his knees, hugged his father's frail body tightly, and cried like a child. ‎ ‎"I'm sorry, Abba," he whispered, "I came to take you...not to a facility, but back to your home, back to my heart, where you’ve always belonged.” ‎ ‎The father said nothing. He simply placed his shaky hands on his son's head, just as he had done when he used to comfort him as a child. ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Let this story remind us all: A parent’s love doesn’t need documents. ‎It just needs remembrance, gratitude and above all, presence. ‎ ‎Let’s not wait for the silence of absence to realize the noise of love they once made. ‎ ‎ ‎Loved the story? Let me know! ‎If this story touched your heart, please don’t forget to leave a comment—your thoughts mean the world to me. ‎Want to read more emotional and meaningful stories like this? ‎Hit the subscribe button and stay connected for more soul-stirring content. ‎ ‎Your support inspires every word I write. ‎Thank you for reading!
By YASAR ALI7 months ago in Families
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The key turns stiffly in the lock, one last time. I push open the door, and it groans in protest—just as it always did, like a grumpy guardian that never quite warmed to strangers. The scent of dust and old wood clings to the air, mingling with something fainter—familiar, elusive—like the ghost of cinnamon toast on Sunday mornings or my mother’s lavender soap.
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