The sound of his laughter still echoes in my heart, even now. Hanafi, my husband of 14 years, had a way of filling a room with warmth and light. His humour was subtle but sharp, a quiet wit that always found its mark. He would smile in that knowing way of his, delivering lines that would catch us off guard and leave us laughing long after. He was our joy, our anchor, the man who made our house a home.

It happened swiftly. Too swiftly for me to fully comprehend. One moment, we were celebrating the arrival of our second daughter, a miracle we had waited 11 long years for. The next moment, I was standing in a living room filled with a silence so heavy it was almost deafening. I had a newborn cradled in my arms, her soft coos oblivious to the storm that had descended on us, and an 11-year-old daughter whose laughter had been replaced by tears.

My eldest, Hanafi’s shadow, had always been close to her father. She adored him in the way only a daughter could. She had hung onto his every word and shared his love for subtle jokes. When I told her what had happened, her wail pierced the stillness of the house. She clung to me, her tears soaking my shoulder, her voice trembling as she asked, “Why, Mommy? Why did Allah take him away?”

How could I answer her when I was struggling with the same question? How could I console her shattered heart when mine was breaking into a thousand pieces? I held her tightly and whispered the only words that brought me comfort: “Allah will not abandon us, sweetheart.”

The Day Everything Changed

The day my husband returned to Allah began like any other. I spent the morning preparing for and conducting a mid-semester test for my students, completely unaware of the test that awaited me later that night. Hanafi and I had chatted briefly about our plans to travel back to our hometown for the long weekend. We were excited, as always, to spend time with family. The day unfolded as it always did, an orderly routine, with no sign of the storm about to come.

That night, the phone rang just before midnight, shattering the silence of the house. I picked up the phone and, on the other end, I could hear wailing and screaming in the background. The person on the other line was clearly struggling to speak, and it took several moments before they finally delivered the words that would change everything: “Hanafi collapsed on the badminton court. It was a heart attack… he didn’t make it.”

The news hit me with a force I couldn’t comprehend. My knees buckled, and I gasped for air as my mind struggled to process what I had just heard. It felt as though the ground beneath me had disappeared, but somehow, my heart kept beating, even as my world shattered around me.

Breaking the news to my eldest daughter was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I walked into her room, my hands trembling, and gently shook her awake. She blinked at me, her face still heavy with sleep, and asked, “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

I struggled to find the words, but there was no way to soften the blow. When I finally told her, she froze and stared at me in disbelief. Then the tears came, deep, wrenching sobs that filled the room. She clung to me, crying. Her anguish mirrored my own, and all I could do was hold her tightly and cry with her.

As I stood between my two daughters, one shattered by grief and the other blissfully unaware of the loss that had forever changed her world, I realized this was indeed a great test: a test of faith and trust in Allah’s Plan, even when everything felt unbearably heavy.

The Legacy of Hajar

Hajar [alayhis] held onto tawakkul in her darkest hour. [PC: Emma Van Sant (unsplash)]

– these words aren’t mine. They come from the story of Sayyidatina Hajar , a woman whose faith continues to inspire countless believers. Imagine her, standing in the barren desert of Mecca with no food and water for sustenance, and no shade to protect them from the relentless sun. Her husband, Prophet Ibrahim had left her there with their infant son, Ismail , under Allah’s Command. She did not waver. Instead, she asked one simple question: “

I hold on to Hajar’s story of trust and resilience. If she could summon strength in such dire circumstances, then, إن شاء الله “If Allah wills”, I could find it too. Her story is not just a historical tidbit. It is a timeless reminder that Allah never abandons His servants.

The Final Goodbye

At the forensic unit, many of our family members had already gathered to bid him farewell. Friends and relatives remarked on my calm demeanor, surprised that I wasn’t hysterical or wailing, as they might have expected when faced with such devastating news. Outwardly, I appeared composed, but inside, my heart was breaking into a thousand pieces. Every step I took toward him felt heavier than the last.

When I saw him, lying there so peacefully, he looked as if he were merely asleep. I had the honour of washing his body, a task both painful and sacred. It was a final act of love, the last time I would hold him. My hands trembled as I completed the ritual, my tears falling silently. At that moment, I made dua’, asking Allah to have mercy on him and to reunite us in Jannah one day.

It was then that I truly understood the meaning of inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un—to Allah we belong and to Him we shall return. As much as my heart ached, I knew this was part of Allah’s Plan, and I clung to the hope of meeting him again in the hereafter.

The Light of His Humour

Even in the darkest times, memories of my husband’s wit always bring us so much joy.

Once, the vet sent a message to Hanafi’s phone, which was registered with the clinic, so they contacted him whenever we sent a cat for treatment. My sister had recently sent her cat, Ani, to the vet, and the message simply stated it was time to pick Ani up.

Hanafi, ever the joker, announced that we needed to pick up Ani from the clinic, knowing full well that we also had an aunt named Ani who lived hours away. The confusion was immediate. Why would our aunt be at the clinic? And how had she ended up there? Hanafi let us stew in our bewilderment, quietly enjoying the chaos, until it finally dawned on us— the Ani he was referring to wasn’t our aunt but was the cat instead. The realization left us in fits of laughter at the absurdity of the situation and at Hanafi’s quiet delight in watching us unravel the mystery.

He also loved to tease. He knew my eldest daughter couldn’t stand seeing us display affection with one another. So, with his usual cheekiness, he’d purposely tease her by using pickup lines on me. “I need the tea sweet like you,” he’d say to me, with a mischievous smile, knowing it would earn him a dramatic eye-roll or an exaggerated groan.

Even now, in the midst of my grief, memories like these continue to bring a smile to my face, reminding me of the light he brought to our lives.

Faith as a Refuge

In the quiet moments, after the visitors had left and the house fell silent, I turned to Allah . Tears streamed down my face as I raised my hands in dua’, “Oh Allah, guide me through this. I cannot do this alone.”

It was in those moments of vulnerability that I felt the most strength. I thought of the Quranic verse:

“And with Him are the keys of the unseen; none knows them except Him. And He knows what is on the land and in the sea. Not a leaf falls but that He knows it. And no grain is there within the darknesses of the earth and no moist or dry [thing] but that it is [written] in a clear record.” [Surah Al-An’am; 6:59]

If Allah knew the falling of a single leaf, surely, He knew the state of my shattered heart. Surely, He had a plan.

The Path Forward

“The days are long, and the challenges are many, but they are interwoven with moments of joy.” [PC: Dila Ningrum (unsplash)]

My eldest, despite her grief, has shown a resilience that astounds me. We talk about her father often, sharing his jokes and remembering his wisdom. It’s our way of keeping his beautiful memory alive in our home. My youngest, too young to understand the loss, is now almost three years old. She is growing up healthy, cheerful, and looking more and more like him each day.

Each day begins with a dua’ for strength and ends with gratitude. Gratitude not only for what I still have, but also for what I have finally come to understand. I have learned that tawakkul, reliance on Allah , is what steadies the heart. I have also realised that vulnerability is not a sign of weakness. It is a path toward resilience and unimaginable strength. 

A Traveler’s Perspective

Life is a journey, a temporary stop on our way to the Eternal. The loss of Hanafi has made this reality clearer than ever. I am a traveler, as are we all. And while the pain of separation remains, knowing that he is now under the care of our Merciful Rabb brings me calm, and the hope of reunion in Jannah continues to sustain me.

Hajar’s story ends with the miraculous spring of Zamzam, a manifestation of Allah’s Promise and Mercy. My story is still unfolding, but I know one thing for certain: My Rabb will never abandon us.

If you are reading this and carrying your own burden of loss, know that you are not alone. Your pain is seen, your tears are counted, and your struggle is known by the One who created you. Trust in Him, even when the path is unclear.

As the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said upon the loss of his son, Ibrahim :

“The eyes shed tears, and the heart grieves, but we will not say except that which pleases Allah. Indeed, we are grieved by your departure, O Ibrahim.” [Sahih al-Bukhari 1303]

May Allah grant us the strength to endure, the faith to persevere, and the hope to continue our journey toward Him.

اللهم أجرني في مصيبتي، واخلف لي خيراً منها

“O Allah, reward me in my affliction and replace it with something better.”

Related:

– My Dearest Fetus: Enduring Unimaginable Loss

– Sharing Grief: A 10-Point Primer On Condolence