humanity
Humanity begins at home.
We Celebrated Mom’s Birthday in the ER
Birthdays were always simple in our house. Growing up, my mom never asked for much—she was the kind of person who preferred handwritten cards over big gifts, home-cooked meals over fancy restaurants, and quality time over grand gestures. So when her 67th birthday came around, I planned exactly the kind of day I knew she’d love. Lemon cake (her favorite), some of her closest friends coming by in the evening, and a cozy dinner with her kids around the table.
By Fazal Hadi6 months ago in Families
The Taste of Lost Memories
The key to my grandfather’s crumbling greenhouse wasn’t metal, but wood – warped oak, smoothed by generations of touch. It felt alive in my palm, resisting the turn. With a groan that echoed through the overgrown jungle beyond the fogged glass, the heavy door swung inward. Dust motes, thick as snowfall, danced in the single shaft of weak afternoon sun piercing the grime-coated roof. The air hit me first – not decay, but density. Wet earth, ancient stone, ozone-like after a storm, and beneath it all, a dizzying kaleidoscope of scents: sharp peppermint, burnt sugar, something like old parchment, and the faint, unsettling tang of copper.
By Abdul Hai Habibi6 months ago in Families
The Quiet Strength of My Father. AI-Generated.
I never saw my father cry—not when his small business collapsed, not when the doctors handed down a prognosis like a heavy stone, and not even when we said goodbye to loved ones too soon. His strength wasn't loud. It wasn’t the kind you associate with grand gestures or dramatic speeches. It lived quietly in the corners of our home, in the steady rhythm of his footsteps each morning, in the way he always checked the locks twice at night—not out of fear, but out of responsibility.
By Taimoor Khan6 months ago in Families
How to Treat Elders
I grew up in a house where silence was louder than words. Not the awkward silence of strangers, but the kind that echoed love, wisdom, and patience. My grandfather lived with us for the first seventeen years of my life, and though he rarely raised his voice, his presence filled every room he entered. He taught me how to treat elders—not with obligation or politeness, but with a deep, personal reverence born from understanding who they are, and what they carry.
By ℍ𝕦𝕕 ℍ𝕦𝕕 𝔸𝕞𝕫6 months ago in Families
The Day My Dad Stopped Saying “I Love You”
I remember the last time my dad said, “I love you.” I was ten years old, holding a trophy from the school spelling bee. I wasn’t even that good at spelling—I just got lucky with the words that day. He hugged me tight in front of everyone, whispered it in my ear, and kissed the top of my head.
By Fazal Hadi6 months ago in Families
The Little Light That Waited
In a forgotten corner of an old railway town, nestled between cracked sidewalks and aging lampposts, there stood a rusted traffic signal at the edge of an abandoned intersection. No cars passed through here anymore. The shops that once buzzed with life had long since boarded their windows. Grass broke through the cracks in the road. Yet, every evening, just as the sun slipped below the horizon, that old traffic light would flicker on — green, yellow, red — in perfect rhythm, casting a soft glow onto the pavement below.
By Musawir Shah6 months ago in Families
