Her Last Gift Was a Prayer

“Abba, when I’m gone… please don’t cry too much. Just pray for me. That’s all I need.”
These words echoed in Shabbir’s ears as he sat alone, holding his daughter’s favorite scarf. The room still smelled of her — a blend of rose and jasmine, her favorite attar.

A week ago, his little girl, Areeba, had passed away due to a rare illness. She was just 17. Bright, cheerful, and full of dreams — gone too soon.

Shabbir had always been a tough man. He believed in discipline, in strictness. He loved his daughter deeply, but never showed it the way she wished he would. He worried it might make her soft. His love came in the form of rules, boundaries, and silence.

Areeba, on the other hand, was sunshine. She would wake the house with Qur’an in the morning, help her mother in the kitchen, and still find time to text her friends warm little reminders about prayer and gratitude.

Shabbir didn’t understand her world. To him, her optimism seemed naive. Her faith, too emotional. He’d say, “Real life doesn’t run on duas, Areeba. It runs on action.”

But Areeba always smiled and replied, “Action with dua is more powerful than anything, Abba.”

The night before she passed, she asked to speak to him privately.
“Abba,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “I know Allah decides everything. Maybe this illness is His way of calling me back early. But I want you to promise me something.”

He looked at her, his heart torn.
“Promise me… you’ll forgive yourself. And you’ll talk to Allah the way I do. He listens, Abba. Just try once.”

He didn’t answer.

Now she was gone.

And he regretted every moment he’d missed hugging her, every time he scolded her instead of listening, every time he told her to stop crying instead of asking why.


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Areeba’s last gift wasn’t a dress or a diary. It was a prayer. A gentle nudge toward a path Shabbir had long abandoned — the path of softness, of turning to Allah with the heart.

In her room, he opened her Qur’an. Inside was a note with his name.

> “To Abba:
When I’m not around, don’t let your heart become hard again. My biggest dream was always to see you smile with your heart. Pray. Forgive. Love. I’ll be waiting in Jannah, InshaAllah.”



Tears rolled down his face.

That day, Shabbir made wudu for the first time in years — not out of obligation, but out of longing. His hands trembled as he raised them in dua:

“Ya Allah… she was better than me in every way. Give her peace, and forgive me. I don’t know how to live without her, but I know she would want me to live closer to You.”


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In the weeks that followed, people noticed a change. He spoke more gently. He started praying again, sometimes crying in sujood. He helped at the local masjid quietly.

But most of all, he began writing. In a journal dedicated to Areeba, he wrote letters to her. Not to hold on to grief, but to remind himself that her prayer still lived — in him, in his actions, in his softened heart.


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🌱 Moral Reflection

This story is a reflection on how our hearts can be guided back to Allah — sometimes through the very people we take for granted. Shabbir, like many parents, loved his child deeply but expressed it through control and structure. Areeba, though young, carried a wisdom rooted in sincerity, faith, and emotional awareness — something often overlooked in our fast-paced, emotionally restrained cultures.

Her final request wasn’t for gifts or worldly remembrance, but for dua and inner transformation. In Islam, this is the essence of love — to guide others gently back to their Creator. Areeba’s strength in illness, her ability to forgive, and her quiet trust in Allah, left behind a legacy greater than any inheritance.

The story reminds us that emotional softness is not weakness, and that expressing love, especially within families, is a form of ibadah (worship) when done with sincerity. It also emphasizes the power of repentance and returning to Allah — that it’s never too late to change, no matter how far we’ve drifted.

We must never underestimate the impact of our words, prayers, and presence, especially on those we love. Sometimes, the smallest acts of love and reminders of faith become the greatest sources of healing long after we’re gone.