I sat alone in the dimly lit room of the orphanage, clutching a faded photograph of my father. Tears welled up in my eyes as I whispered to the image, “Baba, I miss you so much. I wish you were here.”
I was only seven years old when my father passed away. Since then, life had been difficult. We lived in a small village where my mother was forced to serve my uncles’ wives and live as a servant in their homes.
“They say you’re watching over me, Baba,” I continued, my voice breaking. “But if you were really here, none of this would have happened. They wouldn’t treat us like this.”
As I spoke, memories flooded back to me. I remembered how my mother would come home exhausted, her spirit broken by the endless work she was forced to do. I remembered feeling helpless, unable to protect her or myself from the cruelty of our relatives.
“But now, I feel so alone,” I sobbed. “I don’t know what to do. I wish you could come back and take us away from here.”
As I spoke, a soft voice filled the room. “I may not be able to come back, my son, but I am always with you. You are strong, Ali, stronger than you know. You must stand up for yourself and your mother, and never let anyone take advantage of you.”
I looked around, but there was no one there. I knew then that it was my father’s spirit speaking to me, giving me the strength and courage to face the challenges ahead.
With renewed determination, I wiped away my tears. I knew that life would never be easy, but as long as I had my father’s love and guidance, I could overcome anything.
