The Hands That Never Let Go”

The sun had begun to set when Mariam laid the last plate on the table. The aroma of chicken biryani filled the small kitchen, and for a moment, the house almost felt alive again. She looked at the clock — 7:00 p.m. sharp.

Dinner time.

Her husband, Rashid, used to sit by the window, reading the newspaper. Her daughter, Aisha, would hum while setting out the spoons, and her son, Hamza, would come running from his room, pretending to be the hungriest person in the world.

That was before the accident.

Now, only one chair at the table remained untouched — Hamza’s.

Mariam still set a plate for him every evening, even though everyone told her to stop. Her sister had said, “It’s time to let go, Mariam. He’s gone.” But how does a mother “let go” of her child? He wasn’t luggage she could leave behind. He was her laughter, her chaos, her everything.

Hamza had been only sixteen. Too young to die, too full of dreams. He wanted to be a pilot, to “touch the sky,” as he always said. Every morning he’d wake up before sunrise, step onto the balcony, and stretch his arms toward the sky, shouting, “One day, Mama, I’ll fly higher than these birds!”

She’d laugh then, pretending to scold him. “Just don’t forget to come down for breakfast!”

The morning of the accident was like any other — except for the argument. He’d wanted to go on a trip with friends, and she’d said no. The roads were slippery, the weather was bad, and something in her heart whispered don’t let him go. But he was stubborn, like her.

He had left with a slammed door and angry eyes. She’d watched him walk away from the window, the last image of him in his blue hoodie and backpack.

He never came back.

A speeding truck. A phone call. A scream that didn’t sound like her own.

For weeks after the funeral, Mariam lived in silence. She’d sit by his bed, fold his clothes again and again, just to feel like he might walk in any moment and mess them up. She couldn’t bring herself to wash his coffee mug — the one with the words Best Son Ever fading from the rim.

People tried to comfort her. “Time heals all wounds,” they said. But time didn’t heal — it only taught her how to hide the pain better.

One evening, months later, as she was cleaning his room, she found a notebook under his pillow. It was his journal. She hesitated before opening it, afraid of what memories it might hold.

The first page read:

> “Dear Mama,

If you ever find this, I just want you to know — you’re my hero. I know I don’t say it much, but I see everything you do for me. When I fly one day, it’ll be because you taught me how to rise.”

Her hands trembled. Tears blurred the words. She turned the pages — dreams, doodles, poems, plans for her birthday. And on the last page, dated just a week before the accident, he had written:

> “If anything ever happens to me, tell Mama not to cry too much. She deserves laughter, not pain. She’s the reason I believe in love.”

That night, for the first time since he died, Mariam didn’t cry. She just sat on the bed, holding the notebook close to her chest, whispering, “I’ll try, my son. I’ll try.”

Now, every evening, when she lays the plates on the table, she still places one for him — not because she hasn’t moved on, but because love like that never truly leaves. It simply changes shape.

After dinner, she walks to the balcony and looks up at the sky. A faint star always twinkles in the same spot. She smiles softly.

“Fly high, my love,” she whispers. “And don’t worry… I’ll be okay.”

The wind brushes against her cheek, gentle and warm — like a kiss from the son who never forgot to come home for dinner.