Some people think heroes wear capes and fly through the sky. But I don’t. I think my hero wears a kurta, carries a miswak in his pocket and walks quietly to the mosque before the sun is even fully awake.

My daddy is not a superhero from comics. He is a superhero in my life. He doesn’t save planets or fight dragons (although I did once see him kill a giant spider in our bathroom with a slipper, so that counts as bravery). But every day, he saves our family with his prayers, with his love and with his secret superpower, which is sacrificing without telling anyone.

He never says, “Look at all the things I do for you!” Nope. He just does them. Like magic. Like tahajjud time magic, that’s quiet but powerful.

I sometimes wake up early by mistake, like my eyes open without my permission, and I see the light from the prayer room. And there’s daddy, sitting on the floor on the musallah, the Qur’an open on the wooden rahal, and his lips moving gently like they’re telling secrets to Allah. His eyes are closed like he’s swimming in the words. That’s when I realise… wow, daddy doesn’t just read the Qur’an, he is inhaling it.

He doesn’t go back to bed after Fajr like most of us snorers. He goes straight to the kitchen to help mum make breakfast. He chops onions without crying (feels like he has onion-proof eyes!) and makes the fluffiest omelette in the universe. He never says, “I’m helping.” He just helps. That’s what makes it golden help, not loud, not braggy, just soft and warm like paratha steam.

Then he goes to work in an office that I think might be made of bricks and boredom. But he goes anyway, wearing his faded shoes that have walked more than Google Maps can count. He works even when he has a cold. He works even on hot days when Karachi feels like a toaster. He works for us, even when his dreams had different plans.

When I asked him once, “What did you want to be, daddy?”

He smiled a slow smile and said, “I wanted to travel the world and write stories, beta.”

I asked, “Why didn’t you?”

And he just touched my nose and said, “Because my story became you.”

That’s when I felt something inside my chest called (heart fizz), it’s when your heart gets bubbly and you want to cry and hug at the same time.

Daddy never misses a school event. He claps the loudest, even if I just say a single line in the play. When I feel sad, he doesn’t say, “Don’t cry.” He says, “Let’s give your sadness a name so we can wave goodbye to it.” And then we name it something silly like Mr Gloomy Socks and laugh him away.

On Fridays, after Jumu’ah prayers, he brings samosas from the bakery, even if he had a tiring week. And on Eid, he irons everyone’s clothes before his own. And know what? He always lets me eat the first bite of the Eid feast. Always!

Some people think daddies are only strong. But I’ve seen my daddy cry during duas and smile during pain. That’s a double-strength kind of strong, like a lion with a soft marshmallow heart inside.

This Father’s Day, I want to give him something more special than a tie or mug or socks. I want to give him this:

D for the du’as he makes in secret.

A for always making our world complete.

D for the dreams he pressed into a prayer mat.

D for the discipline that hugs.

Y for ‘You’re the reason my world has light.’

Dear Daddy,

You are my never-give-up machine. My prayer champion. My quiet but deep love, my professor. My daddy. And if anyone ever asks me what a hero looks like in real life, I’ll point to you, with a proud heart and paratha crumbs on my sleeve.

Published in Dawn, Young World, June 14, 2025