The Last Letter

Rehan sat by the window of his New York apartment, watching the snow blanket the world outside. The city was alive, but inside, he felt numb. His phone buzzed constantly—calls from colleagues, condolence messages, flight details—but he ignored them all. Today wasn’t about business. It was about her.

Three days ago, his mother, Shabana, had passed away in Karachi. The funeral was done, the rituals completed. He had flown in late—too late. He hadn’t seen her in over five years. Not because he didn’t care, but because life had become a fast-moving blur of deadlines and ambition.

Growing up, Rehan was everything to Shabana. His father had died when Rehan was just a toddler, leaving her a widow at twenty-seven with no support system. She had stitched clothes in the day and taught children at night to feed him, raise him, educate him. She never remarried. “My world begins and ends with you,” she would say, brushing his hair as he studied under the flickering tube light.

Rehan was brilliant. He won a scholarship to a top university in America and left with dreams in his suitcase and his mother’s duas in his heart. In the early years, he called every week. Wrote long emails. Sent gifts. Promised her that one day, she would live with him in a big house with a garden full of roses—the ones she loved.

But time passed. The calls became texts. The texts became excuses. “Ammi, I’m in a meeting.” “Ammi, I’ll call tomorrow.” “Ammi, next Eid, pakka.” That next Eid never came.

Then one day, a cousin called. “Rehan bhai, Ammi is not well. She misses you. Please come.” He promised. But the trip kept getting delayed. Work was busy. Meetings were endless. And then came the message: “Ammi is gone.”

When Rehan arrived in Karachi, the house was quiet. Her slippers were still at the door. Her reading glasses on the side table. The fan turned slowly overhead, as if waiting for her to speak again. On the wooden table near her prayer mat, there was a sealed envelope. His name was written in her familiar handwriting.

With trembling hands, he opened it.

“My dearest Rehan,”

“If you're reading this, it means Allah has called me back. Don’t cry, beta. I had a good life—because I had you.”

“I know you were busy. The world demands so much. But in the quiet corners of this house, I always waited. Your childhood laughter still echoes here. Your school drawings are still in my cupboard.”

“I missed you, but I never blamed you. I just hoped, maybe one day, you’d knock on the door and say, ‘Ammi, I’m home.’”

“I wrote this letter not to make you sad, but to remind you—love is never too late. If you ever feel you failed me, remember this: You never did. You were always my proudest moment.”

“Take care of your health. Eat on time. Sleep well. And beta... forgive yourself.”

“Love always, Ammi.”

Rehan broke down. Not in front of people. Not at the graveyard. But there, in her room, with her letter in his lap and her scent still lingering in the air. He cried like a child.

That night, he sat in the living room where she used to pray and wrote her a letter in return. “I’m sorry, Ammi. For every Eid I missed. For every phone call I didn’t return. For taking your love for granted. You deserved more than just memories.”

He stayed in Karachi for two more days. He visited her favorite bakery. Fed the poor outside the mosque she prayed in. Cleaned her cupboard, folded her old shawls, and packed her prayer beads. He took only one thing back to New York—her letter.

Months later, it sat framed above his desk. Whenever the city overwhelmed him, he’d read it again. And each time, he would whisper, “I’m home, Ammi… I’m home.”