السلام عليكم و رحمة الله و بركاته 

Mom, thank you for giving birth to me at 7:58PM, on a cold winter night in a room somewhere in the University of Nebraska, in Omaha, Nebraska, USA.

It's weird because the earliest memory I have is that time when the police pulled us over because one of the tires to Dad's car was inflated. I don't know what year it was, 1997 probably, because when I told Dad one summer day when I was in second grade about wondering if that was a memory or a dream, he was surprised because he told me when that happened, I was less than two months then. Do you remember that, Mom? We were on our way to St. Louis, it was the middle of the night, and suddenly the police pulled us over. It's weird, because, like, I can remember the memory, but I can't remember if I was in your arms or not, and that's what really bothers me.

At the age of seven, Mom, something had gone wrong with my intestines. I'd stand and you could see the shape of my intestines, popping out of my belly. It wasn't a pretty sight. And you, being the overprotective mother/doctor you are, you had me sent to the hospital just a few days after. It was Thursday, I remember, when I woke up from surgery. It was weird, waking up to foreign surroundings and blinding fluorescents. For a moment, I forgot where I was and what had happened and just stared at the strange doctors. But then Mom, you came, with balloons and homemade food and presents. And just like that, everything was warm again.

Mom, do you remember that time, when we were at the masjid back in the US, and there was that scary old guy with a shotgun? You sent me to summer school at the masjid back then, because you wanted to make sure I got the Islamic education I needed. And one day, I heard shots a short distance away, and one of my peers told me they were fired by a Christian who hated Muslims and I was terrified because I thought he was going to kill us all. You came later on, and I ran to you and cried in your embrace because I was so afraid of losing my life, afraid of losing you, afraid of losing everything. But then you said he was just a hunter, and sometimes he shot animals like skunks and rats, and I felt silly for jumping to such conclusions and then you laughed at me.

Mom, remember going to the parent-teacher conference at Unity Point School and having to guess which seat was mine? Everyone had to draw a self portrait of themselves and put it at their seats and have their parents guess where they were seated in class. And you guessed mine correctly, and I was so proud because I thought I did a good job drawing myself, but then Fareeda said that my outfit gave it away, seeing how I was wearing the same outfit I drew. She laughed at me, and then I laughed at me,  and you just smiled and I loved you so much then.

I love you even more now, Mom.

I've always loved you. 

And I always will.

Mom, looking back at the memories, I noticed how you were always there for me. And being my rebellious self, you must've had a hard time dealing with me, a hard time raising me. What with all the ugly comebacks I've said to you and my unbearable stubbornness and going behind your back at times. And I'm sorry that I can't repay you like how you deserved to be repaid. I'm sorry that my grades aren't good enough and sometimes I laze around at home and how I only help around the house by taking care of Fariha and ironing my own school clothes. I'm sorry that sometimes I get short-tempered and grow upset when you pick me up from school at seven-thirty and complain when I have to wait a long period of time for you.

But Mom, I'm trying my best. And I am waiting for the day where I can finally tell you “You can stop working, you've done enough for me, come live with me, I'm capable of taking care of you now,”

It's weird you know, because, when I was a kid, I always had the idea that it was the parents' job to take care of their children. The image that played through my mind was that the child was always smaller than the parent, clinging onto the parent for their dear life. But Mom, I'm taller than you now, and that image I used to have is now gone. You look so fragile to me now. And in the future, InsyaAllah, I'll be the one taking care of you.

I pray that it is haram for your feet to step into the gates of Hell.

Have a safe journey back home, Mom. I'm always praying for you.

السلام عليكم و رحمة الله و بركاته