The phone felt heavy in my hand, with Farah’s name on the screen. I dreaded making this call—I'd rather fix a car, build a shed, or clear gutters. But telling her about her mother? It was the hardest task I’d ever faced.

I pressed the button, and Farah’s cautious voice choked me up. Despite my rehearsals, my words came out trembling and awkward.

"Farah," I began, trying to steady myself. "Your momma had another episode today."

I heard Farah’s sharp intake of breath and the silence felt accusatory, but I continued, "She went out to run errands but ended up lost at the park. Mrs. Gupta found her."

Farah fell silent, her concern palpable. "I’m coming over Papa," she eventually replied.

I sighed. "No need to rush; she’s home now." Yet I knew Farah would arrive soon.

Sitting on the porch, I stared at my cold tea, questioning my failures. I should have noticed the signs sooner and anticipated this day, but despite my preparation, each episode hit me like a gut punch.

When Farah arrived, she embodied her mother’s strength, but her eyes revealed the same worry I see each morning in the mirror.

"She’s resting," I said, anticipating Farah’s concern. 

She nodded and walked past me, each step heavy with a burden beyond her years. As she disappeared into the house, I felt an unfamiliar helplessness. I could repair things with nuts and bolts, but I couldn’t fix her mother or what was slipping away from us both.

As time passed, soft murmurs drifted from her mother’s room. I didn’t need to listen closely to know: Farah would be reaching out, while her mother remained lost in an impenetrable fog.

I can’t pinpoint why I did it—perhaps Farah’s look as she walked back to the door, her eyes heavy with the sorrow of losing someone still so present, or my own deepening fear. Farah might believe I did it for her, but she doesn’t know what I gained in return. Or maybe she does, for the heart’s scars are hidden within, not on the skin.

I just… opened my arms.

Farah looked at me like I’d lost my mind. And maybe I had. I was never one for hugs—hadn’t been since she was a kid.

“Papa?” She asked, her voice soft, unsure.

“Your momma always said, ‘A hug is always the right size,’” I muttered, feeling foolish. “I thought maybe... I could try.”

Farah's laughter caught me off guard, and before I knew it, she was in my arms. Initially stiff, I soon relaxed, realizing how much I needed this embrace. We stood silently, holding each other close.

When we finally parted, I cleared my throat, searching for words. “Your momma may forget other things, but she asks for you every night.”

Farah’s eyes glistened with unshed tears and a smile, momentarily revealing the child she once was.

It was a hug—a simple, too-late hug—that had finally made us whole.