A Father's Day Dream: The Night My Children Came Back To Me

It was the night before Father's Day, in June 2025. While the world around me prepared to celebrate their fathers with flowers, hugs, cards, and joyful gatherings, I lay alone in my room, as I do every night, a father without his children, a heart without its beat. The world outside was silent, but within me stirred a storm of memories, prayers, and silent cries. I thought of my three precious children: my Arshad, my Sarah, and my Murshad.

- BY SYED MAJID GILANI

They have been taken away from me, living beyond my reach. Yet every single moment of my life belongs to them. Not a day passes when I do not call their names in my prayers, long to hear their voices, feel their arms around me, and see their innocent faces light up with joy the way they once did. Every night, I close my eyes with their names trembling on my lips and beg Allah to keep them safe, to let me see them again. I know this forced separation is temporary, and so, with a heart torn but steadfast, I wait with patience.

Last night, as the world slipped into sleep, the prayer of a broken-hearted father reached the heavens. I drifted into a restless slumber, and what followed was no ordinary dream. It was life itself, returned to me for a few fleeting, precious moments. In the depth of the night, I felt the door of my room creak open. I turned, and there they were. My life. My soul. My everything. Arshad stood tall, a fine young boy now, yet the same familiar pain shimmered in his deep, gentle eyes, the same pain that quietly eats away at my heart. He came close, held my hand, and whispered, “Papa... I miss you every single day. Not a moment passes when I do not think of you. I remember how you woke me for Fajr prayers, how we walked together on frosty mornings, those cycling trips to Shalimar Garden, how you taught me to skip stones on Dal Lake, and how we laughed while eating golgappas, corncobs, and belpuri by the boulevard. I miss visiting your office, playing with your pens, and riding in your lap. I miss our Maghrib prayers at Hazratbal Shrine. Do you remember, Papa, how you would lift me up to kiss the sacred walls? I miss everything, Papa... I miss you.” “Those were the happiest days of my life, Papa. They still are.” I held his hand, trembling in that moment of warmth I had longed for so desperately.