<p class="bodytext">There are moments in life when words fail and the heart speaks instead, moments when pain or illness strips away the noise of the world and reveals what truly matters: the quiet, unwavering presence of those who love us most. For a child, no matter how young or grown, that presence often has the face of a parent. There is a certain kind of comfort that a mother brings that cannot be bought, taught, or replaced. There is a certain kind of reassurance that a father brings as his eyes soften when his child returns home. </p>.<p class="bodytext">I recently had to undergo an intensive surgery while my parents were staying with us. Their voice, gentle and perhaps even a bit frail, reverberated in the house, making the world feel safe again. The murmur of consolation, the rustle of a blanket being adjusted, and the patience in their touch carried its own kind of magic. In their eyes, I was still their child, needing care, no matter the years that had passed. During my convalescence, I realised that a parent’s presence is medicine in itself. It might not cure illness, but it certainly heals the heart. As we grow older, life’s “illnesses” take on new forms, but our parents literally and metaphorically sit beside us in the dark and wait for the morning to come.</p>.When clarity ends confusion.<p class="bodytext">Having re-experienced the profound benediction of my own parents’ unwavering support, I resolved to weave that same gift of presence for my girls, an inheritance of solace and strength in their time of need. I want them to navigate life’s challenges, knowing that no matter what, my husband and I are always there for them --a fortress of support when life’s trials arise. </p>.<p class="bodytext">When the world insists on being cruel, may we sit with our parents a little longer. May we listen to their stories, even the ones we’ve heard before. May we thank them over and over again not just for what they’ve done, but for simply being there. May we look past their indiscretions and their limitations and see that their presence is not just a part of our past; it’s the quiet blessing that continues to guide, lift and hold us even today, a gentle reminder that we live in a benign universe where the night always yields to dawn. </p>
<p class="bodytext">There are moments in life when words fail and the heart speaks instead, moments when pain or illness strips away the noise of the world and reveals what truly matters: the quiet, unwavering presence of those who love us most. For a child, no matter how young or grown, that presence often has the face of a parent. There is a certain kind of comfort that a mother brings that cannot be bought, taught, or replaced. There is a certain kind of reassurance that a father brings as his eyes soften when his child returns home. </p>.<p class="bodytext">I recently had to undergo an intensive surgery while my parents were staying with us. Their voice, gentle and perhaps even a bit frail, reverberated in the house, making the world feel safe again. The murmur of consolation, the rustle of a blanket being adjusted, and the patience in their touch carried its own kind of magic. In their eyes, I was still their child, needing care, no matter the years that had passed. During my convalescence, I realised that a parent’s presence is medicine in itself. It might not cure illness, but it certainly heals the heart. As we grow older, life’s “illnesses” take on new forms, but our parents literally and metaphorically sit beside us in the dark and wait for the morning to come.</p>.When clarity ends confusion.<p class="bodytext">Having re-experienced the profound benediction of my own parents’ unwavering support, I resolved to weave that same gift of presence for my girls, an inheritance of solace and strength in their time of need. I want them to navigate life’s challenges, knowing that no matter what, my husband and I are always there for them --a fortress of support when life’s trials arise. </p>.<p class="bodytext">When the world insists on being cruel, may we sit with our parents a little longer. May we listen to their stories, even the ones we’ve heard before. May we thank them over and over again not just for what they’ve done, but for simply being there. May we look past their indiscretions and their limitations and see that their presence is not just a part of our past; it’s the quiet blessing that continues to guide, lift and hold us even today, a gentle reminder that we live in a benign universe where the night always yields to dawn. </p>
