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.