he day started like any other. The alarm rang promptly at 7 am. I woke up in my usual nervous sweat feeling the weight of the world. As I'm preparing my mediocre breakfast of toast and jam, my phone rings.  
 
My mother's name flashed on my screen. Immediately my heart sank. I knew this call wouldn't be pleasant. Calls from my mother usually carried a hint of disappointment - all the ways I had fallen short. I considered letting it go to voicemail, but something inside of me made me pick it up. Before I could even muster a simple "hello", she spoke. "He's gone." My chest caved before my mind even processed it. She didn't need to clarify who, I knew. Abu, my grandpa. As she continued, between sobs about funeral details, it felt like the floor had been taken from beneath me. 
 
The call ended and all around me was silence that wasn't really silence - it was absence. I sat on my couch, barely eaten breakfast in front of me. My legs felt paralyzed. I knew that I had to attend the funeral. It was not optional. Returning to my home country, 7500 miles away was not in my plans for now- mostly because I wasn't where I wanted to be in life. Life hadn't worked out the way I had planned. No career in medicine, no significant milestones to share. I used to be the family golden child but now I was a cautionary tale. Going back home would mean facing relatives with judgmental comments, constant reminders that I never become who they wanted.  
 
But Abu, had always been there for me. I owed it to him. 
 
Packing was no easy feat. Normally, I was meticulous. I had a system-  packing cubes and a categorized packing checklist. This day it was clothes thrown into a suitcase without care and toiletries tossed in haphazardly. All I could think about was that Abu was gone. I'd never hear his voice again or receive the yearly birthday emails from him. Now my future children will only know him through the stories I told. Returning to my home country had its own rituals- selecting gifts for all my extended family members, and visiting all the places from my childhood. Abu never cared for any of that. My presence was his gift and he always reminded me of that. He used to wait for me at the airport with open arms. This time there was none of that. Just my awfully packed suitcase and a ticket purchased with urgency and grief.  
 
A 17 hour plane journey was endless. So many hours trapped in this capsule with nowhere to escape my thoughts. I took out my phone and scrolled through my photos and videos of Abu. Thankfully, moments from when I was an infant all the way up to now, 30, were very well documented. From my first day of school to my medical school graduation. His familiar smile in every image, same wrinkled hands and eyes that always looked at me with love and pride. As I scrolled, the realization sank into me with every swipe: this was all the footage there was ever going to be. 
 
I shifted uncomfortably. At this point in my life, I should have been further along. My family expected a top physician, not someone still stumbling. Abu never measured me against everyone else's expectations but I know would have wanted me to become so much more. The burnout got me before success could. No matter how much I planned or promised myself to try again, I just didn't progress and the years slipped through my fingers. 
 
Somewhere over the Atlantic, a sudden commotion woke me up. An elderly woman, in the row beside was screaming and shaking a man next to her aggressively. He was older, unconscious, his face pale. His head was leaning back and his eyes were following. "Is there a doctor on board?" A flight attendant yelled. I froze. A voice in my head saying "You're not the doctor your family deserves" was getting louder. But before I let that paralyze me, like it was muscle memory, I jumped in to help. Maybe I wasn't the successful doctor I wanted to be, but I was trained. I studied for this day.  
 
I promptly checked his pulse - faint but there. I was in the middle of asking the woman about his medical history, trying to piece a diagnosis together. Then, as if right on cue, he let out a loud groan and vomited everywhere, all over himself, his seat and the floor. Nearby passengers showed their discomfort. The woman who introduced himself as his wife, said he took his diabetes medication and forgot to eat before boarding the plane. It all made sense, he was hypoglycemic. I let the flight attendant know to bring the man some juice and a light snack, something to bring his glucose levels up. An air hostess returned with his refreshments and put out her hand to shake mine and said "thank you, doctor". A warm rush filled in my heart. For the first time in years, I didn't feel like a failure. Abu would have smiled at me then, I knew it. I kept my eye on the man the rest of the flight, and thankfully, he was okay. 
 
The plane finally landed, wheels screeching to a halt against the tarmac. I was welcomed back home by the pilot in my mother tongue. I shuffled through to immigration, then eventually baggage claim dragging my suitcase behind me. At the glass doors, where Abu's familiar figure would be, there was only strangers and the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights. For the first time, stepping into my home country felt foreign.  
 
At the passenger loading zone, a cousin I hadn't seen in years waved me over. Both of us in tears, hugged each other. When we arrived, the house was overflowing. Shoes were chaotically piled in front of the door, and the low hum of grief lingering in the air. As I stepped inside the living room, faces turned. Some were sympathetic while others were staring at me with recognition of the failure who had finally come back. My aunts pulled me into embraces and said things like "you should have come sooner." "Well, at least you're here now." It more taunting than comforting. I tried my best not to take their words to heart, to not let their judgments burrow deeper. I kept searching for Abu, out of habit. The empty chair in front of his desk, still pulled out like he was just there. 
 
I drifted away from the crowd to Abu's study. The questioning from my relatives had become unbearable. The study was just as I remembered- the books on the shelves, the mismatched pens and pencils scattered about. There was peacefulness in this room, unlike the rest of the home. I looked at the books one by one, admiring the worn edges from years of use. His presence was all over. That's when I noticed a single envelope tucked between a stack of papers. My name, on the envelope in Abu's familiar script. For a long moment, I just held it. Finally, I managed to open it.  
 
My dear, 
The world measures success in many ways. Some of those ways may leave us feeling small. Remember this: failure is not the end. It is a step, a part of your journey and not a definition of who you are. I have always believed in you. Wherever life takes you, my faith in you will always remain. May God bless you with good news all your life. 
Abu 
 
I cried. I felt as if Abu had wrapped his arms around me, settling the chaos all around. For the first time in years, I felt peace. Everything that was weighing me down, the distance from who I thought I was supposed to be, the anxiety and guilt, all felt lighter. Abu's words weren't a magic fix; but a solid reminder someone saw my worth. It was enough for me to keep carrying forward his faith in me. I felt as though whatever came next, I would face it with the part of me that Abu saw. 
 
As the funeral rituals came to an end,  I realized something I hadn't expected; I was learning about resilience, compassion and what it truly means to step up. I thought back to the man on the plane. Helping him had helped shake off the weight I was carrying. Abu's faith in me had been with me this whole time, guiding my hands, even when I didn't recognize it. I decided to carry Abu's belief in me, and act with courage. Even in his absence, he showed me what I needed to see.