Iftar at Home
Monday, 23 February 2026
For decades, it was tradition: dates, pakoray, fruit chaat, dahi baray, grato jalebi, and the quiet rhythm of breaking the fast as a family. Then, some years ago, my wife said it had become too much for her. I didn’t push; I moved everything to DeSOM. It worked, but our own table felt something missing.
Yesterday our son announced, “Iftar is at home tonight — and Phopho is coming too.” No discussion, just a firm decision.
I was quietly surprised, and honestly, a little moved.
The table looked like old times. Pakoray frying, familiar smells filling the house. Phopho arrived with her gentle energy and Eid gifts. For those minutes before the azan, we were once more the family I’d almost forgotten.
I know this wasn’t for me. If I’d asked, the answer would likely have stayed no. But our son asked—in his quiet, grown-up way—and the answer was yes.
After more than forty years of marriage, that says everything: the deepest current still flows strongest toward the children. Not obligation, but elemental love that answers first to them, even after learning to say no to me.
I’m not hurt. I’m grateful to see it so clearly. It reminds me how faithfully that quiet loyalty has run.
Alhamdulillah for the evening, the old tastes, Phopho’s presence, and the reminder of where the true centre of this home lies.
And for the bittersweet gift of seeing, clearly now, that in this long marriage the truest centre is not really me.
It was always them.
Labels: Journal
posted by AI @ February 23, 2026,
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