Last night, I dreamed of my foster mother. She was wearing a white sari with a blue border, her face quiet and heavy with sadness. She passed away in 2008, yet after all these years, not a single day has passed when I have forgotten her. I lost my biological mother when I was only nine months old. After her death, my maternal grandfather took me from my father and entrusted me to Mariyam—my mother's stepmother—who became my foster mother. She had given birth to ten children, yet none of them survived. Perhaps that is why she held me so close to her heart. As a child, I called her “Ma.” Later, because of constant reminders from others, I began calling her “Didi.” I never saw my maternal grandmother—she had passed away before I was born. So Didi became both my mother and my grandmother, all in one. Didi was of medium height and strikingly beautiful. She had deep black eyes, thick eyebrows, long wavy hair, and a small, betel-leaf-shaped face. Her lips were naturally thin but always stained red from paan. She wore soft, light-colored cotton saris, and there was always a sweet, familiar scent when she spoke. She was kind, generous, and carried a quiet strength. Even in her own sorrow, she tried to make others smile. Whenever she appears in my dreams, my entire day becomes heavy. Her life was filled with grief. She lost her parents at a young age. Her only sister was married off early, like many girls in 1940s Bangladesh, and just two years later, she was murdered by her husband. Though her father owned vast land, it was taken over by relatives. Loss followed her everywhere, leaving her in a state of quiet, lifelong sorrow. Yet, despite everything, she raised me with unconditional love. I was often sick as a child, and she endured endless hardship for me. When I was nine, my father took me away for what he believed would be a “better future.” Didi cried endlessly—her grief was so deep it almost broke her. After my marriage, she spent much of her time with me, caring for my children the same way she had once cared for me—with patience, sacrifice, and love. But life continued to take from her. She lost her parents, her sister, her children, and eventually her husband. Age brought illness, weakness, and memory loss. Her hands and legs trembled constantly. After sixty, she became increasingly aware of death. She longed to die in her husband's home. Eventually, she returned to her village and lived with Altaf, her husband's youngest son—whom she had raised herself. She lived nearly seventy years. But her death was unbearably tragic. One winter night, during a power outage, a small oil lamp burned on the floor. She got down from bed to go to the bathroom, wrapped in a shawl. Perhaps a loose end of it brushed the flame. At first, she didn't realize what had happened. Then suddenly, the fire spread. Her body caught fire, and by the time anyone understood, it was too late. She was taken to the hospital—but she did not survive the journey. The next morning, I received the news over the phone. My uncle's home was fifteen to sixteen hours away from Dhaka. It was not possible to preserve her body for that long. And perhaps, deep inside, I did not want to see her that way. I wanted to remember her face as I had always known it. So, I did not go. After forty days, I visited for her funeral rites. That house, once filled with her presence, felt unbearably empty. Everywhere I looked, I saw traces of her. My heart broke in silence. My life is filled with memories of Didi—memories I will carry forever. She passed away in 2008. Years have gone by, yet she lives within me—in my thoughts, in my breath, in my being. When I think of her life, my eyes fill with tears. Sometimes, God feels unfair—almost one-sided. He lets some people float in happiness, while others drown in sorrow from birth to death. Why couldn't her life have been a little kinder? Still, I hold onto one belief: She is in a better place now. God, please… keep my Didi happy in heaven.

The Cathedral Post Office, Uptown, Manhattan. I was walking along with others on the 2nd floor. Each of us was carrying one or more large boxes. We are all mail processing clerks. Our duty was shorting, scanning, and preparing mail for distribution. Job started at 3am, but I always came at 12am. Because my home was too far away. The outbreak of the pandemic has just calmed. Many offices and companies were still closed, and people were facing an extreme financial crisis. My husband recently got a job, but the salary was low. Before this job, he got an unemployment allowance. I didn't, because I was a student. I earned money by working at a study job before COVID 19, but that opportunity has closed. All colleges are online now. It was hard to continue education with only my husband's income, so I joined the postal job. I worked at night and attended online classes during the day. “Are you okay?” Someone asked to see me standing. “I couldn't walk,” I said in a scared voice. “What's wrong?” “I had a terrible car accident last week. Everything was fine, but today I'm feeling a lot of pain in my knees." She helped me to sit down on a chair. After two hours my older son (28 years old) took me home. My doctor told me, “It happened because you didn't get enough rest." After the car accident, I should have taken a rest for a month, but I continued my job because it would become permanent after three months. Eventually, I lost my job and we had to move out of our apartment due to financial difficulties. Then my husband became sick and needed surgery. Despite all this, I didn't give up on my studies, but I was always worried about how I would continue them. After that, I managed to get through three more semesters through various struggles. I'm just on the verge of graduation now. But my misfortunes haven't left me. New critical problems have arisen in my life. I got an urgent call from my doctor before the Fall-2022 semester. She told me that I have heart blockages and that she has scheduled for an angioplasty at Mount Sinai Hospital on August 25. I was extremely disappointed to hear that. My classes will start on August 25. If I die or become sicker from this treatment, my dream of earning my degree will not come true. I only have one more semester left to graduate. So, I didn't want to go through with the procedure. My doctor told me, "Your life is more important than your studies." I couldn't tell my doctor how important studying is to me. When I was nine months old, I lost my mother. My stepmother stopped my studies in the middle, and it took me more than two decades to struggle. In 2015, I moved to the United States and started my studies through the GED program. It wasn't easy for me because I had been out of studies for a long time and English was not my first language. On the first day of class, my teacher asked me some questions and I couldn't understand or answer anything. My eyes filled with tears, and I told myself that I wouldn't come back to class the next day. But I did. Within a week, my doctor called me again. She gave me some medical tests a few days before. After receiving the reports, she immediately deemed my angioplasty as urgent. She said that I could have a stroke at any moment. When the doctor confirmed that I would be able to go back to my classes within two or three days, I agreed to the procedure. After the angioplasty, I had various health problems. In addition to the blocked arteries, the doctor found blood clots. It was a little complicated. When I got my senses, I saw the nurse holding a part of my right arm tightly because the bleeding was not stopping. I left the hospital holding my right hand tightly because I had class the next day. But I was so sick that I couldn't go to class the next day. After three days, I started attending classes regularly and doing class assignments along with household chores. At that time, I had to take so many medicines that I always fell asleep and forgot everything. I felt a lot of pain in my right hand. I often forgot to take medicine on time and became sick quickly. My whole body was filled with big blue and black spots that looked like injury marks. But I was happy when I received my final grades. I got four "A" in four subjects (two were A-)." I am thankful to my kind professors for considering my hard work. My bad luck still hasn't spared me. Right after the fall 2022 semester, my husband twice contracted COVID-19. He was extremely sick and quit his job. I have faced so many difficulties since starting my studies that I am now afraid "will I be able to finish my last semester of graduation!" But I feel that someone is constantly helping me from behind. He brought me back from death's door five times and protected me many times from the conspiracies of my stepmother and dishonest people. So, I believe that he will help me fulfill my dream this time too!