“My friend is being insulted in the class every day, mama. I don’t like it when someone laughs at him. The teacher has to repeat at least twice before he understands what is being taught,” said my son, Romi, in a worried voice, on returning from school.
I was busy watching my favourite drama on TV, so I nodded and continued watching.
“Mama, you never listen!” Romi sounded annoyed. His tone was low and conveyed deep disappointment. I quickly paused my programme and looked at him.
“The teachers should take care of this issue and his parents should be taken into the loop; no one else can do anything in this regard, beta,” I carefully phrased my words so that he knew I had thought about his problem and tried to come up with a convincing solution.
“His mother is unavailable… I am talking about Zohaib, I think you have forgotten,” Romi walked away with heavy steps to his room.
His words echoed in my mind. I suddenly remembered that Zohaib was the same boy whose mother had died of cancer a few months back. It was a terrifying experience for my child, as being Zohaib’s best friend, he had also been affected by the emotional trauma Zohaib was going through.
Then my late mother’s voice echoed in my ears: “Pay attention to every word your child says. It reflects their little worries and those are huge for them.”
I remembered how my mother used to be everywhere for us. She was a dynamic woman with many qualities — a great human, a devoted mother and wife. Despite innumerable responsibilities, she always had time for us.
Once, I went to her with a problem a friend of mine was facing. Seeing my discomfort, my mother went to the school, spoke to the concerned teacher and helped the child in every way she could. I remember how proud I felt when my friend smiled.
So I got up, prepared Romi’s favourite noodles and went into his room, where he had just changed out of his school uniform into comfortable clothes. I sat with him, took his little hand in mine and asked about everything. He told me that since his mother’s death, Zohaib had no one to help him with his studies at home and that was why he was losing marks.
“I think we can help him. I help you with your studies, right? I can help him as well!” I said.
“Really?” Romi’s eyes twinkled with hope.
“Of course! I have his grandmother’s number… I will call and offer my help without mentioning what is taking place at school,” I shared my plan.
Romi’s eyes lit up with hope and joy.
“He is an intelligent child. With a little help, I think he will catch up with the rest of the class. And no one will bully him,” I added.
Keeping my word, I called Zohaib’s grandmother and offered to help him with his studies every day for two hours, the same time I gave to Romi. She happily accepted, as she was already worried about his studies and could do nothing in this regard.
From the next day, Zohaib arrived exactly on time. Together, we prepared a timetable to meet daily study needs and the upcoming examinations. Zohaib quickly adjusted, as if he had been waiting for someone to guide him. In just a week, he showed remarkable improvement. Romi too was happy and proud of his friend.
I felt a sense of pride — not just for my son, but for someone else’s child too. Being a mother, I feel for every child. I see the struggle, I see the pain and I feel responsible to help all children in whatever way I can.
One day, while I was in the kitchen, Romi came in and loudly said, “Happy Mother’s Day, Mama!”
I turned around and saw Zohaib standing beside him. Both children looked at me with innocent smiles and I hugged them. They both deserved the warmth of a mother’s embrace.
Being a mother means to think beyond oneself, to have the capacity to love selflessly. And it is only natural that this kind of love can’t remain confined to only one’s own children, it wraps all children in it’s warm embrace.
Published in Dawn, Young World, May 9th, 2026
