When a Mother’s “Love You” Turns to Silent Tears for Gaza’s Children
PoriPurno News Desk | August 04, 2025
Last night, in a quiet home filled with the comforting sounds of two little girls preparing for sleep, a mother had a moment so heartwarming—yet so heartbreaking—that it echoed far beyond her own family.
It started with a simple bedtime ritual. Every night, without fail, her two daughters say “Love you” to both parents before they drift off to sleep. It doesn’t matter whether the day was filled with laughter or reprimands—those words are uttered religiously, a child’s way of anchoring safety and affection before sleep.
Sometimes, the tone is filled with joy; other times, after a scolding, it sounds more like a reluctant sigh—“love you” laced with the bitterness of tiny heartbreaks. The younger one, if upset, even hisses her “Love you” like a snake—complete with a dramatic “Fssss”—as if forced to speak through clenched teeth.
But last night was different.
The elder daughter cheerfully called out her routine “Love you” as she headed to bed. The mother, busy grading assignments, replied absentmindedly with a distracted “Hmm.”
Moments later, her daughter’s voice rang again—louder this time—“LOVE YOUUUU!”
Still half-distracted, she responded again with a soft “Hmm!”
That was when the girl stormed back into the room, placed her hands on her waist like a mini-drama queen, and exclaimed:
“Bro! Ma! WHAT is this?! If someone says ‘Love you’ to you, you NEED to properly reply!”
Caught off guard, the mother laughed and said, “Sorry! Love you too!”
Satisfied, the little one gave her a hug and went back to bed—ritual complete.
Later that night, the mother peeked into their room. The girls, though they bicker like Tom and Jerry all day, were fast asleep—entwined like puzzle pieces. The younger one, as always, couldn’t sleep without wrapping her arms or legs around her older sister, much to the elder’s sleepy irritation.
And that’s when the moment turned.
As she stood watching them sleep in peaceful warmth, her thoughts drifted far away—from her safe home in Bangladesh to the blood-soaked ruins of Gaza.
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She recalled a viral video she had seen recently—one she tried to avoid but couldn’t forget. In it, a child the size of her younger daughter was seen holding an even smaller sibling, desperately trying to calm them amidst the rubble. Their parents were both gone—killed in an Israeli airstrike.
“My children are sleeping so peacefully,” she thought, as tears welled up. “I still check on them multiple times at night to ensure they’re okay, but those children… they have no one left to check on them.”
She remembered stories of children losing limbs, starving, suffering injuries with no access to treatment. Parents helpless to protect them. Families buried under debris.
“Those kids are children—just like mine. And their parents are parents—just like me,” she reflected.
In that moment, standing in the quiet of the night, she broke down—not with sobs, but with the kind of silent grief only parents know. The grief that asks no questions and gets no answers. The grief of powerlessness in a world where innocent lives are routinely lost to political cruelty.
“What kind of world is this?” she wondered. “What terrifying darkness are we living in?”
And so, surrounded by her children’s safety, this mother did the only thing she could—she cried for the ones who never got to say “Love you” one last time.
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