There is a saying from my people: A child, even if they climb the tallest tree, cannot see what the elder does.
At the time, I did not fully understand it.
I thought I could see clearly. I thought I had weighed everything. I thought I knew what was best for me and my child.
But my father saw something I did not.
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My dear father was not happy with my situation. He had asked me to come home.
I didn’t believe Allah would bring me this far only for me to retreat. No. In my mind, going back felt like failure. Like I had not tried hard enough. Like I was giving up too soon.
So I told him what I could do – I could leave, with my daughter in my arms, and build something for us elsewhere.
He listened.
Then he paused.
And when my father pauses like that, you know he is not speaking lightly.
He said, after thinking carefully, that it would be very unfair to my daughter.
He asked me to be patient.
To give her a brother or sister.
And in shaa Allah, after that, he would support any decision I made.
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It was hard.
Hard is not even the word.
I felt like I would rather walk on hot coals than hear what he had just said.
Because in my heart, I was already tired.
But I didn’t say that.
I loved my father deeply. He was the singular most influential person in my life. A man of wisdom, of foresight, of quiet strength.
So why would Daddy say this?
What was he seeing that I could not see?
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I told him I would think about it.
And I did.
For two years.
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Those two years were not passive waiting.
They were years of watching.
Of learning.
Of quietly adjusting my expectations.
By then, I already knew something important:
I was, in many ways, already alone.
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During that time, we went away on a cruise, two cruises actually, back to back — twenty-nine days in total.
A corporate gift he had received years before.
Don’t get excited.
It wasn’t like that at all.
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But something happened on that trip.
Away from routine. Away from the noise. Away from the daily survival mode.
I found myself turning inward.
And upward.
I began to pray differently.
Not for the marriage to magically transform.
Not for him to suddenly become someone else.
But for clarity.
For direction.
For a way forward that would honour both my father’s wisdom and my reality.
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And one day, quietly, I made a very specific dua:
Ya Allah, grant me another child to fulfill my father’s condition… and give me the strength and support to live the life that follows.
It was not a romantic dua.
It was a strategic one.
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I walked off that ship pregnant.
Three weeks later, a test confirmed it.
Alhamdulillah.
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And with that, something shifted in me again.
Not emotionally this time.
Practically.
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I stopped hoping things would change.
I started preparing for what was.
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I had lived single parenthood theoretically — in my mind, in my plans, in my quiet “what if” scenarios.
Now, I began to live it deliberately.
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I thought about finances.
About energy.
About how to raise two children without constantly battling frustration and resentment.
Because one truth had already become clear to me:
Living with another adult who behaves like a third child is more exhausting than doing it alone.
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So I made a quiet decision.
If I was going to do this…
I would do it with intention.
With structure.
With reliance on Allah, but also with strategy.
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I learned early on that single parenthood is not just about survival.
It is about strategy.
Protecting your children.
Protecting your peace.
Protecting your heart.
And trusting that Allah’s guidance is not always loud…
But it is always precise.
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Sometimes obedience to wisdom does not feel easy in the moment – but later, you realise it was Allah guiding you through someone who could see further than you.
This story is part of the SisterLink community – a space for Muslim single mothers to share, heal, and rebuild.