Two Mothers, One Child

Two Mothers, One Child

BY: Ubaid

It was a warm summer afternoon. The air, for once, was softer than usual, carrying a faint breeze that dulled the sharpness of the season. For several days, the sun had been scorching the streets mercilessly, but that day felt gentler, almost kind. My mother had taken advantage of the pleasant weather and gone to the bazaar with our neighbor. She had promised to buy me a new school uniform, and I knew she wouldn’t return for another three or four hours at least.

My father was asleep in his room. Peace stretched across the house like a comforting blanket, and I was left to my own devices. The opportunity was too perfect to resist. On my desk lay a thick novel I had secretly begun the day before. It was exciting, filled with princes, princesses, and wicked giants. Losing myself in its pages, I completely forgot about time and the world outside.

I was deep in the story, caught in the moment where the brave prince faced the terrible ogre, when my mother suddenly appeared. Without warning, she snatched the novel from my hands.

“That’s enough,” she said firmly.

I sat stunned as she carried the book into her room and shut the door. I didn’t dare ask for it back. Even while I busied myself with routine chores, my mind lingered on the tale. Had the prince rescued the princess yet? Was she safe back in her kingdom? Surely, they would be married in the end—but first, the prince had to defeat the giant.

I tried to put it out of my head, but curiosity clawed at me. Tomorrow, I promised myself, I would know.

I wandered into my grandfather’s old room. It had four large windows—two facing the street, two opening into the narrow lane beside our house. When I was younger, I often slipped in through the window that connected to my own room, instead of using the door. After my grandfather passed away, his room had been abandoned. Pigeons once built nests in its corners, but eventually they too flew away, leaving behind an empty, dusty stillness.

I had claimed the room as my little study. It was my refuge, a quiet space where I could read stories undisturbed. On hot afternoons, cool breezes would drift in through the open windows, carrying with them a hush that made reading feel almost magical.

That day, I stretched out on the wooden bedframe, the novel’s plot still tumbling in my imagination. I replayed the battle: the prince lifting his magic wand, gifted by the fairy, ready to strike the giant. My heart thudded with excitement.

Then, all at once, a tiny chirp broke the silence.

A sparrow fluttered onto the headboard beside me. Its small eyes blinked rapidly, and it chirped insistently. Surprised, I glanced up, and it flew away. But moments later, it returned.

I tried to ignore it. But the bird hopped restlessly—here, then there—chirping louder each time, as if it wanted something from me. At first, I felt annoyed. Couldn’t it see I was busy with matters far greater than its own?

But then a thought struck me: perhaps the bird was trying to say something. Stories had taught me that animals sometimes speak—if not in words, then in gestures.

I set aside my thoughts of the prince and studied the sparrow more carefully. Soon enough, I understood.

Its chick had fallen from the nest.

On the floor, I found the fragile little creature—barely a bundle of flesh, its eyes shut tight, its round belly rising and falling with shallow breaths. The poor thing was helpless. The mother sparrow chirped anxiously, fluttering close and then darting back to the nest, as though guiding me.

Carefully, I picked up the chick. But a new question arose—how could I put it back?

The nest was high, perched near the window ledge. I dragged in a wooden stool from the storeroom, climbed onto it, and reached up, but the nest was still out of reach. The sparrow circled frantically, her wings buzzing around my head.

Determined, I brought in more props—a mattress, then a plank balanced precariously across. I stacked the stool on top and climbed up, chick cupped carefully in my hands. My little tower swayed dangerously beneath me. Still, I stretched higher, just a few more inches…

“What on earth are you doing?”

My mother’s sharp voice rang out. Startled, I nearly lost my balance. The stool wobbled beneath me. My mother gasped in fear.

“Get down! Now!” she cried, her voice trembling.

I froze. In that moment, my hands tightened instinctively around the fragile chick. The sparrow circled again, chirping desperately. My mother’s eyes filled with fear—fear that her child might fall and be lost. And yet before me was another mother, equally frantic, her tiny heart thudding as she watched her baby struggle between life and death.

Two mothers. Two children. And one choice.

I steadied myself, drew a deep breath, and reached the last inch. Carefully, I placed the chick back into the safety of its nest. The sparrow darted down, wrapping her wings protectively around it.

Only then did I climb down slowly, each step trembling under the weight of relief.

The moment I touched the ground, my mother rushed forward and held me tightly. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “If something had happened to you…”

I hugged her back, smiling faintly. “Nothing could have happened to me, Ammi,” I said softly. “After all, two mothers were praying for me today.”

She kissed my forehead, her tears soaking into my hair. In that instant, I knew—the sparrow, too, was holding her little one with the same fierce love.

Two mothers, two children, and a single truth: love binds us all the same.