Dr. Rohi
“A family does not become precious only during extraordinary occasions; it is precious when everyone is talking at once, when someone is laughing from another room, and in the ordinary moments we often take for granted.”
There are some emotions that words can never fully hold. Some feelings are too deep to be explained, too precious to be described, and too overwhelming to be hidden. Sometimes, the heart becomes so full that the eyes begin to speak for it. And lately, I have found myself understanding that language more than ever.
I find my eyes filling with tears over the smallest things. A simple conversation with my mother, a glance at my father, a silly argument with my brothers, a meal together, or even hearing their voices from another room suddenly feels different. Nothing has changed, yet somehow, everything feels more precious.
Perhaps it is because, as I have grown older, I have begun to understand my family in a way I never could as a child not merely as the people I have always lived with, but as the people who have quietly built my entire world.
If my tears could speak, they would tell my parents how much I love them.
They would tell my father that behind every achievement of mine, there is a father who sacrificed things without ever announcing them. A father who worried about my future even when I was busy enjoying my present. A father, who worked, provided, protected, guided, and somehow managed to make me feel that I could achieve anything I wanted.
As a child, I saw my father simply as Papa. I knew that whenever I needed something, somehow he would make it happen. I knew that problems became smaller when he was around. I knew that his presence meant safety. But I did not understand the price behind that safety. I did not understand the sleepless nights, the responsibilities, the worries, the decisions, and the sacrifices that came with being a father. Children often receive their parents’ sacrifices as if they are ordinary things. We grow up thinking that a father’s tiredness is normal, that a mother’s endless care is normal, and that having someone to depend on is normal.
Only when we grow older do we realise that none of it was ordinary. It was love. My father’s love is present in every sacrifice he made silently. It is there in every time he put my needs before his own. It is there in every concern about my education, my future, my happiness, and my well-being. It is there in every moment when he made sure I had what I needed, even when perhaps he had his own worries to carry.
If my tears could speak, they would say:
“Papa I noticed.”
Maybe I did not notice everything when I was younger. Maybe I was too busy being a daughter, a student, a child with dreams and little worries of my own. But I notice now,
I notice the sacrifices behind my comforts, the prayers behind my achievements, the love behind every concern and sometimes I wish I could go back in time and tell my younger self to look a little more carefully; to notice papa’s tired face, to appreciate his quiet efforts,
to understand that one day, these ordinary moments would become some of the most precious memories of my life. And then there is my mother.
How can a daughter ever explain her mother’s place in her heart? A mother is not simply someone who gives birth to you. She becomes a part of your everyday existence so deeply that you sometimes fail to realise how much of your life is held together by her. Her love lives in the smallest things. In the food she prepares, in the way she asks whether you have eaten, in the way she notices your silence, in the way she knows from your face when something is wrong, in the way she remembers the smallest things you once mentioned casually.
in the way she worries about you even when you tell her there is nothing to worry about.
in the way she prays for you without ever telling you how often she does it.
A mother’s love does not always come in grand gestures, sometimes it comes quietly, sometimes it sounds like, “take care of yourself”, sometimes it sounds like , “have you eaten?”, sometimes it sounds like a little scolding, sometimes it is simply her sitting beside you without saying anything and somehow all of it means; “you matter to me.”
There were probably times when I found her questions irritating; times when I wanted to be left alone, times when I thought she was worrying unnecessarily. But growing older has taught me something beautiful; the things that once felt restrictions were often expressions of love, the questions were concern. The reminders were care, the scolding was protection, and the endless giving was love.
If my tears could speak, they would tell my mother, “You are my first home.” Before I understood what comfort meant, I knew your arms. Before I understood what safety meant, I knew your presence. Before I understood how difficult the world could be, I knew there was someone who would worry about me simply because I was hers.
And then there are my brothers. The love between a sister and her younger brothers is difficult to explain. It is made of arguments and laughter, testing and protection, annoyance and affection. Brothers have a strange way of showing love; they may tease you endlessly, they may irritate you for no reason, they may fight with you over the smallest thing, they may make you angry and then make you laugh five minutes later. But beneath all of it is a bond that words cannot easily describe. My brothers have been a beautiful part of my growing-up years. They have seen different versions of me. They have seen me happy, angry, stubborn, emotional, excited, worried and everything in between. They have watched me grow from a little girl into the woman I am today. And I have watched them grow too. We have shared moments that seemed insignificant at the time but now feel priceless. The jokes, the fights, the teasing, the laughter, the conversations, the little acts of care, the moments when we stood up for one another. All of these things have quietly become memories that live somewhere very deep inside me. Sometimes I wonder whether they know how much they mean to me. Perhaps I do not say it enough. Perhaps siblings rarely do. We assume they know. We assume there will always be another day to say it. Another conversation, another laugh, another argument, another ordinary evening together. But perhaps that is why I have become so emotional lately, because I have started understanding the value of ordinary moments.
A family does not become precious only during extraordinary occasions; it is precious when everyone is talking at once, it is precious when someone is laughing from another room, it is precious when someone calls your name, it is precious when your mother asks you something for the hundredth time, it is precious when your father gives you advice you have already heard, it is precious when your brothers tease you about something silly.
These moments look ordinary while we are living them. But one day, we realise that these ordinary moments were actually the most beautiful parts of our lives. Perhaps growing older is not only about gaining new experiences. It is also about learning to appreciate the old ones.
I often think about my childhood now, how quickly it passed, how I once wished to grow up faster, how I wanted independence, how i wanted to make my own decisions, how i never imagined that one day I would look back and wish i could return to some of those simple days, not extraordinary days, not perfect days, Just ordinary moments I often take for granted.
I would sit with my parents a little longer. I would admire the quiet strength of my father. I would cherish the sound of my mother’s voice I would listen to my brothers a little more, I would a little louder, I would hold onto every conversation a little longer. I would treasure every ordinary moment that makes our house feel like home, because I have come to realize that home is not built with walls. It is built with the people whose love fills those walls with life.
My family has shaped me in ways i may never be able to fully explain. My father’s strength has taught me resilience, my mother’s love has taught me tenderness and my brothers have taught me companionship, patience, laughter, and the beautiful chaos of growing up together. There is a story behind every part of me, and so much of that story belongs to them.
If my tears could speak, they would not say that I am sad. They would say that I am grateful. They would say that I have been blessed. They would say that there are people in my life whose love in impossible to repay. They would say; Thank you Papa for every sacrifice I was too young to understand. They would say Thank you Mama, for loving me in all the ways I needed, even I didn’t know I needed them. Thank you, my brothers, for filling my childhood with laughter, arguments, memories, and a love that only siblings can understand. And most importantly, thank you for making me feel that I belong somewhere completely.
May be that is what my tears are trying to tell me. That i have loved deeply, I have been loved deeply, I have been surrounded by people who made life softer, warmer and more beautiful.
My tears are not the signs of weakness. They are memories finding their way to my eyes; they are all the words I never said. All the hugs i never held too long enough, all the thank- yous I forgot to say. All the moments I did not know i would treasure.
If my tears could speak, perhaps they would tell my family everything my heart struggles to say. They would say that I remember the sacrifices, the care, the laughter, the little fights, the protection and the prayers. I remember the countless ordinary moments that made my life extraordinary.
And if there is one thing I want my family to know, it is this; you are not simply a part of my life, you are a part of who I am. I can never separate myself from the love you have given me because it lives within me. And perhaps that is the greatest gift a family can give a daughter, not simply a beautiful childhood, but a heart that knows how to love because it was loved first.
“Home is not built with walls. It is built with the people whose love fills those walls with life.”
So, if my tears could speak, I would let them speak without stopping.
I would let them tell my father that he is one of the greatest blessings of my life.
I would let them tell my mother that her love is a place my heart will always recognise.
I would let them tell my brothers that every argument, every joke, every moment of protection and every shared memory is safely kept somewhere inside me. And I would let them say what i sometimes cannot; I love you, not casually, no simply because you are my family but because you are the people who made my world feel like home. And perhaps, years from now, when I look back at this phase of my life, I will realise that these tears were never really about sadness .They were about love overflowing. They were about gratitude too large for words. They were about a daughter finally understanding the depth of the blessing she has always had. Because some love is so deep that the heart cannot contain it. So the eyes speak instead.
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