This is Part Two of the “A Heart Rebuilding” series.
There is a particular kind of heartbreak that only a mother knows — the kind you feel not in your chest, but in your bones. It’s the ache of watching your child grieve someone who is still alive. The ache of watching your son lose his anchor, his compass, his quiet source of strength.
My son, My Prince, is only ten.
Ten, yet carrying emotions that feel far too heavy for shoulders that small.
Before the divorce, his father was more than a parent — he was his best friend. His daily partner in jokes, in kung fu fighting, movie nights, and secrets only boys share. A constant presence he never had to question.
And then suddenly… that presence thinned into echoes.
He didn’t know what to do with the emptiness.
He didn’t know how to name the confusion.
He didn’t know how to reconcile the love he has for me with the love he carries for his father.
So he pulled inward.
Sometimes I watch him stare into space, eyes distant in a world I can’t reach. He gets quiet in ways that feel too grown for a child who once filled every room with sound. He becomes softer, slower, hesitant — as though he’s afraid one wrong move might break the fragile thing holding his life together.
Then suddenly, he’ll laugh.
A burst of joy.
A spark of the boy I birthed into the world — loud and bright and full of light.
It reminds me he hasn’t disappeared.
He’s just navigating the storm.
And I wish I could shield him from every crashing wave, but I can’t. What I can do is become his safe shore.
So I sit with him.
I let him lean into me.
I let him be quiet without forcing words out of him.
I remind him gently that he’s allowed to love both his parents without choosing sides.
And when he’s ready — when he feels the safety of simply being held — he talks. Slowly. Carefully. Like someone handing over a fragile truth.
He tells me he misses his father.
He tells me it feels unfair.
He tells me he doesn’t know how to fix what’s broken.
I tell him it’s not his job to fix it.
I tell him it’s not his fault.
I tell him he is seen, and heard, and valued — even in silence.
Alhamdulillah, he has Islam.
He has certainty in a world that feels uncertain.
When his emotions pull him under, faith lifts him up.
When he feels abandoned, remembrance becomes his anchor.
His connection to Allaah is not performative — it’s instinct. It’s pure. It holds him gently when life feels too heavy.
And I watch him pray with a sincerity that humbles me.
Ten years old, hands raised, whispering duas with the heart of a grown man.
Ten years old, already looking to his Creator for what this world cannot explain.
I don’t know if he realizes how proud I am of him. Not for being strong — not for being soft. For feeling deeply. For not pretending this doesn’t hurt.
Children grieve differently.
Their sadness shows up in places adults forget to look — in the silence, in the anger, in the clinginess, in the far-off stare.
And I’ve learned to read him the way only a mother can.
I’m learning that loving a child through loss is not about distraction. It’s not about pretending everything is okay. It’s about giving them permission to feel, without drowning in guilt or confusion.
It’s about teaching them that heartbreak isn’t shameful — it’s human.
And as much as I hold him, he holds me too.
Because in his longing for his father, I see pieces of my own longing — not for the marriage, but for the version of life we once imagined together.
We are healing together, side by side, step by unsteady step.
I don’t know what the future holds for him and his father.
I don’t know how their relationship will shift as time softens what feels sharp today.
What I do know is this:
My son will never walk this road alone.
Not while I’m alive.
Not while I’m breathing.
Not while Allaah keeps giving me the strength to rise each morning and show up for him.
He may have lost an anchor…
but he gained a lighthouse.
And I will keep shining for him – until the storm passes, until the waves settle,
until he feels steady again. This is our journey.
This is our healing.
And this is only the second chapter.
If you’re just joining this series, you can begin at Part One : A Heart Rebuilding
If this reflection resonated with you, you’re welcome to sit with it for a moment.
And if it feels right, you’re invited to share your thoughts or reflections in the comments. This space is held with care.
If you know someone who might need these words today, you’re welcome to share this post with them.
And if this stirred something deeper—something that feels unfinished or tender—I offer Clarity Calls as a gentle, no-pressure space to be heard and explore what support could look like for you.
This was a most needed read. As a parent I think that sometimes when dealing with our children that then not only feel our emotions but there own to. This was a great reminder that we have to stop and remind ourselves that they are little humans with big emotions and we have to check on them the way we check on our friends. Thank you for sharing your story it gives comfort in knowing that I am not alone in a lot of these struggles and challenges.
Thank you for reading with such care and for sharing this.
Little humans really do carry big emotions—and sometimes they feel them long before they have the words. Holding space for them, noticing them, and allowing their feelings to exist matters more than we often realize.
I’m grateful this reflection offered comfort and reminded you that you’re not alone. 🤍