The Moonlight’s Mother"

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"The Moonlight’s Mother"

Chandni was only five when her father died in a tragic accident. Her mother, Salma, was just 27 years old at the time. With the responsibility of two young children—Chandni and her little brother Ahmed—and a world that showed no mercy, Salma was left alone. But no one ever saw a trace of sorrow on her face. Every day, her eyes carried a soft, moon-like glow of a smile. People used to say, “This woman must have a heart of stone. After all that she has been through, she never cries.”

But no one saw the nights when Salma would bury her face into a pillow and silently weep—so her children would never see her weakness.

She started sewing clothes to earn a living. She stitched clothes all day and told stories to her children at night. Putting Chandni to sleep by pointing at the moon became her nightly ritual. She would say, “Chandni, look at the moon. That’s your father. Whenever you see it, remember he’s watching over you.” And little Chandni would smile innocently, “Mama, did Baba really become the moon?”

Salma wasn’t just a mother; she was a miracle. She never let her children feel they lacked anything. Whenever Chandni fell ill, Salma would leave all her work and sit beside her. Sometimes, she went to sleep hungry herself, but she always made sure there was warm milk for Chandni.

Time passed. Ahmed performed well in school, but his heart leaned towards justice and helping the working class. Every day he would come home and say, “Mama, one day I’ll bring justice for everyone.” Salma would only smile and kiss his forehead.

Chandni grew fond of painting. Colors became her dreams. One day she painted a portrait of her mother—Salma holding both children in her arms, with silent tears falling from her eyes. Chandni asked curiously, “Mama, you never cry. Then why do I see tears in your eyes here?”

Salma was quiet for a moment, then softly said, “Sometimes, a mother’s heart gets full too, my child. But it’s a mother’s job to cry silently and keep smiling.”

Then came the day when Chandni got admission into a national art academy. The entire neighborhood celebrated with sweets. Ahmed threw a small party, but Salma remained quiet. Chandni hugged her and asked, “Why don’t you cry, Mama?”

Salma hesitated and replied, “A mother’s happiness is silent, child. It comes out only as a prayer from the heart.”

Months later, Chandni was selected for an international painting competition. She submitted the same portrait of her mother she had drawn as a child. When she won the award, she said on stage:

“This award belongs to my mother—who may never have known colors herself, but painted my world with them.”

When she came home, her mother burst into tears—something Chandni had never seen before. “These are tears of joy, my child,” Salma said. “Today, you’ve completed everything I ever dreamed of.”

But the story didn’t end there. Chandni built a small art gallery for her mother, capturing every sacrifice, every smile, and every silent tear in paintings. The gallery was called:

“A Mother’s Prayer.”

People came, saw, and left in silence. Behind every painting was a story. And behind every story was a mother—Salma