The Forgotten Chair

The house was once filled with laughter, hurried footsteps, and the aroma of fresh bread. Now, it echoed only with the ticking of an old clock and the shallow breathing of a woman whose hands had built everything within its walls.

Amna had three children—Sami, Zara, and Hamza. She had raised them with every drop of her energy, sacrificing dreams, delaying desires, and silencing her needs. She never complained, not when Sami broke her favorite vase, not when Zara came home late night after night, and not even when Hamza left for another city without saying goodbye properly.

She had taught them to walk, but now they had walked far away from her.

Sami, the eldest, lived just fifteen minutes away but rarely visited. “Work is too demanding, Amma,” he would say during the rare phone call, his voice always in a hurry. He had two children of his own now, and Amna had seen them only once, at a rushed family gathering two years ago.

Zara, the only daughter, had once clung to her mother’s sari as a child. Now, she clung to career ambitions and social appearances. “I’ll come on Sunday,” she promised every week. Sunday came and went like a passing train, leaving behind the silence of unfulfilled words.

Hamza, the youngest, had been the closest to her heart. He used to sit by her side even after he grew up, telling her everything—until he stopped. Now, he barely replied to her messages. Once, she had texted, “Beta, did you eat?” He replied three days later with a thumbs-up emoji.

Amna didn’t ask for much. A cup of tea with someone to talk to. A gentle hug. A shared laugh. She had cupboards full of clothes and jewelry gifted by her children on various occasions, but they all remained untouched. She didn’t need things. She needed them.

One winter morning, the house grew colder than usual. Amna sat by the window wrapped in an old shawl, looking at the empty street. Her tea had gone cold, untouched like the messages she sent the night before.

That evening, she fainted near the kitchen. The neighbor, Mrs. Farzana, who often peeked through her window, noticed the house lights had been on too long without movement. She knocked. Then knocked harder. Finally, she entered, only to find Amna collapsed.

The children were informed.

Sami arrived the next day, Zara a few hours after him, and Hamza took a flight that evening. For the first time in years, all three stood under the same roof—the one that raised them.

Doctors said it was exhaustion, stress, and loneliness. “She needs rest, and more importantly, she needs you,” the doctor told them sternly.

That night, they sat around her bed, quiet and guilt-ridden. Amna was conscious but weak. Her eyes fluttered open, and a faint smile touched her lips. “You came,” she whispered.

Hamza burst into tears. “I’m so sorry, Ammi. I should have been here. I should have—”

Zara held her hand tightly. “We all should have. We forgot the hands that fed us, the heart that held us together.”

Sami, who had always been the composed one, simply knelt and placed his forehead on her hand. “I don’t know how to fix this. But I want to.”

The house, once silent, breathed again. The kettle hissed. The laughter of children echoed once more—this time, Amna’s grandchildren. She recovered slowly, surrounded by love she thought she had lost.

From then on, the visits were regular, the calls frequent, and the smiles genuine. Sami installed a small garden for her in the backyard. Zara brought books and music. Hamza worked remotely for a while, just to stay close.

Amna never scolded, never reminded them of their absence. She simply cherished their presence, like sunlight after a long, harsh winter.

But they knew. They knew they had almost lost her to the very neglect they never thought they were capable of.

And they vowed never to let her feel forgotten again.