To raise a child not born from your own body—for thirty years—that is not something easily accepted in many families. But that is exactly what my aunt did for me. My biological mother had been overwhelmed; I was one of triplets, and caring for three babies at once proved too much. In that moment of struggle, my aunt stepped forward with courage and love, choosing to raise me as her own.

She never married. From the very beginning, it was always just the two of us. That’s why I call her Mom. She became my entire world. She was like an angel, always present, always attentive, caring for every need without complaint. Her love wasn’t just in what she did, but in the blessings she spoke over me. Constantly, she would pray: “Allah yarda ʿalayk”—“May God be satisfied with you.” She repeated that prayer so often that it became the rhythm of my life. And I believe, with all my heart, that God was listening.

Not everyone understood her devotion. To some in our family, she spoiled me. They whispered that I would grow up lazy, unaccomplished, and ungrateful. For a time, it seemed like they might be right. I failed out of university while studying English commerce. Compared to my siblings—more disciplined, more religious, more focused—I seemed like a disappointment. And my failure reflected badly on her. Yet through it all, she never gave up. She kept praying, day after day.

Eventually, I found my path. I switched my studies to nursing. At first, she tried to talk me out of it. She had been a nurse her entire life, and she knew the challenges—the long hours, the endless responsibilities, the emotional toll. But I told her: “I want to be a nurse so that I’ll always have something to remind me of you.” From then on, I worked harder than I ever had. I studied diligently, passed my exams, and began my career as a nurse at the hospital.

Those early days in the hospital were filled with challenges, but also with pride. Many of my relatives came in as patients, and I had the chance to care for them personally. They would leave and tell her afterward: “Yehya took such good care of us.” That was all she had ever wanted—to hear good things about me. To know that I was becoming a man she could be proud of. She lived to hear those words, and to see her prayers answered.

With my earnings, I was able to buy her a new home. For two years, we lived there happily. Though the house was later destroyed in the war, those years together were some of the most beautiful of our lives. She met my daughter, whom I named Zainab—after her. She got to hold her granddaughter, to see her smile, and to witness the next chapter of our family’s story.

And then, just before the war began, she passed away. Peacefully. Suddenly. In my arms. Exactly as she had always prayed: without pain, without suffering, surrounded by love.

If you had asked her how she wished to leave this world, she would have described it just that way. And once again, as He always had, God was listening.

This is her story. But it’s also mine. It’s the story of an aunt who became a mother, of prayers that shaped a life, of sacrifices that built a future, and of a love so strong it still guides me every single day.