Raising Muhammad Without His Father
My husband died in a car accident on a Tuesday. By Wednesday, everyone had an opinion on how I should raise our son.
Yusuf died on the E-5 motorway between Bakırköy and Zeytinburnu. A lorry driver fell asleep. It was 11:47am. Muhammad was three.
The janazah was on Wednesday. Two hundred people came. My mother-in-law collapsed twice. I didn't collapse. I couldn't. Muhammad was holding my hand and asking why Baba was sleeping in a box.
The opinions started at the funeral. My brother-in-law said I should move back to my parents' village. My father said I should remarry quickly — 'for the boy's sake.' A woman I barely knew from the mosque told me it was a test from Allah and I should be grateful. I wanted to scream.
The first year was survival. I worked as a translator during Muhammad's nursery hours and freelanced at night after he slept. I learned to fix a leaking tap from YouTube. I learned to assemble IKEA furniture alone. I learned that grief doesn't come in stages — it comes in ambushes. You're fine in the supermarket until you see his brand of yoghurt and suddenly you're crying between the dairy and the bread.
Muhammad started asking questions at four. 'Where is Baba?' In Jannah, I told him. 'Can I visit?' Not yet, habibi. 'Will he be there when I get there?' Yes. Always.
He asked me once if Baba could see him from Jannah. I said yes. He spent the rest of the day being extra good, just in case. He tidied his toys. He ate all his vegetables. He prayed next to me at Maghrib, his tiny forehead on the sejadah, whispering words he'd memorised from hearing me.
That image — my four-year-old son in sujood — broke me and rebuilt me in the same breath.
I didn't remarry. Not because I'm against it, but because I haven't met anyone who deserves to be Muhammad's father. That's a high bar. Yusuf set it.
Muhammad is seven now. He looks exactly like his father — same eyebrows, same stubborn jaw. He tells his school friends that his Baba lives in Jannah and that it's even better than Disneyland. His teacher called me concerned. I told her he's not confused. He's at peace with something most adults can't face.
Every night after Isha, we make du'a for Yusuf together. Muhammad always adds his own bit at the end: 'And Ya Allah, tell Baba I scored a goal today.'
I don't know if that's how du'a works. But I know it's how love works.