I didn’t mean to cry in front of him.
But the tears slipped down anyway — silent and warm, unstoppably human — as I stood by the hospital curtain, clutching my phone like it was the last thing tethering me to reality.
My father was asleep on the hospital bed, the quiet rise and fall of his chest the only reassurance I had after 48 panicked hours. A minor stroke, the doctors had said. He was stable. He might recover fully.
Might.
It was that one word that cracked something inside me. I had held it together through the emergency call, the ambulance, the hours in the waiting room — but now, with the midnight buzz of fluorescent light overhead, I suddenly felt ten years old again. Powerless. Terrified. Alone.
I pressed my palm over my chest to slow my breathing.
I knew I should pray.
I knew I should trust.
But instead I scrolled. Helplessly. Aimlessly. Notifications. Emails. Memes. Distractions.
And then — my thumb paused.
A single verse someone had shared in a status: “So whoever does an atom’s weight of good will see it, and whoever does an atom’s weight of evil will see it.” (Surah Az-Zalzalah, 99:7-8)
I’d read those words my whole life. But tonight, they felt different. Like they had been waiting for me. Watching me.
I locked my phone and stared at my reflection in the dark window — a tired woman with a fraying scarf and puffy eyes — and whispered, “Ya Allah, does it even count… the way I kept him company these nights? The sobs I swallowed? The prayers I couldn’t finish?”
In the silence, the verse echoed again.
…Will see it.
Even an atom’s weight.
Even if no one else notices. Even if I can’t feel it myself.
I slid into the cold vinyl chair beside the bed and exhaled, slowly.
I remembered how, as a child, my father would pat my head after a school test, no matter how poorly I did. “Allah sees your effort. That’s what matters, habibti.”
I never once doubted him then. Why do I doubt Him now?
I rested my head against the edge of the bed. The beeping monitors kept their rhythm. My father’s breathing was steady. Somewhere beyond this hospital, dawn would arrive in a few hours.
I didn’t need to solve everything tonight.
I didn’t need to pretend to be strong.
I just needed to belong to the One who counted even the smallest cries… even the tiniest prayers whispered into the dark.
So I whispered again. A dua without words this time. Like an open hand rising toward the sky.
I expected nothing immediate. Nothing cinematic.
But still, a calm settled where the panic had lived.
Not a shout. Not a miracle.
Just a quiet knowing: Allah sees.
And that... was enough.
—
Relevant Qur’anic Verses:
I didn’t mean to cry in front of him.
But the tears slipped down anyway — silent and warm, unstoppably human — as I stood by the hospital curtain, clutching my phone like it was the last thing tethering me to reality.
My father was asleep on the hospital bed, the quiet rise and fall of his chest the only reassurance I had after 48 panicked hours. A minor stroke, the doctors had said. He was stable. He might recover fully.
Might.
It was that one word that cracked something inside me. I had held it together through the emergency call, the ambulance, the hours in the waiting room — but now, with the midnight buzz of fluorescent light overhead, I suddenly felt ten years old again. Powerless. Terrified. Alone.
I pressed my palm over my chest to slow my breathing.
I knew I should pray.
I knew I should trust.
But instead I scrolled. Helplessly. Aimlessly. Notifications. Emails. Memes. Distractions.
And then — my thumb paused.
A single verse someone had shared in a status: “So whoever does an atom’s weight of good will see it, and whoever does an atom’s weight of evil will see it.” (Surah Az-Zalzalah, 99:7-8)
I’d read those words my whole life. But tonight, they felt different. Like they had been waiting for me. Watching me.
I locked my phone and stared at my reflection in the dark window — a tired woman with a fraying scarf and puffy eyes — and whispered, “Ya Allah, does it even count… the way I kept him company these nights? The sobs I swallowed? The prayers I couldn’t finish?”
In the silence, the verse echoed again.
…Will see it.
Even an atom’s weight.
Even if no one else notices. Even if I can’t feel it myself.
I slid into the cold vinyl chair beside the bed and exhaled, slowly.
I remembered how, as a child, my father would pat my head after a school test, no matter how poorly I did. “Allah sees your effort. That’s what matters, habibti.”
I never once doubted him then. Why do I doubt Him now?
I rested my head against the edge of the bed. The beeping monitors kept their rhythm. My father’s breathing was steady. Somewhere beyond this hospital, dawn would arrive in a few hours.
I didn’t need to solve everything tonight.
I didn’t need to pretend to be strong.
I just needed to belong to the One who counted even the smallest cries… even the tiniest prayers whispered into the dark.
So I whispered again. A dua without words this time. Like an open hand rising toward the sky.
I expected nothing immediate. Nothing cinematic.
But still, a calm settled where the panic had lived.
Not a shout. Not a miracle.
Just a quiet knowing: Allah sees.
And that... was enough.
—
Relevant Qur’anic Verses:
