A LOVE LETTER TO OUR ORDINARY DAYS.

The first sound of the morning isn’t the alarm. It’s her.

5:30 a.m., the house is still wrapped in the velvet hush of night, but then—water splashes, and her voice floats through the air. A song in the shower, lilting, unbothered, carrying the confidence of someone who has not yet learned to hold back. Rema, of course. She knows every word, and she sings like the lyrics were written for her.

I listen from my bed, eyes still heavy with sleep, but smiling. It’s the kind of moment you don’t think to cherish until you realize how quickly the days are moving.

She emerges, wrapped in warmth, her face glistening from a liberal slathering of petroleum jelly. I don’t have to look up to know what comes next—the meticulous laying of her edges, the soft hum under her breath. Then, the scent fills the air. A misting of perfume, then body spray, then more. I groan from my room, “Zawadi, that’s enough,” and she laughs because she knows I’ll say it, and she knows she won’t listen.

She is 12 going on 13. A girl suspended in the soft, golden space between childhood and everything that comes after. I’m not ready for the shift. Just yesterday, she fit a little more snugly under my arm. Just yesterday, she was smaller.

Now, she is stretching—upward, outward, into the world. But in this house, in my space, she is still mine.

Whenever I watch something on a small screen, she appears like a tide, wordlessly settling into my space, cheek pressed to mine, arms folded into herself like she belongs there. Because she does. She never asks if she can be there. She simply is. And I love that.

We dance. A lot. She makes me dance. She teaches me moves I’ll never perfect, but I try anyway. The living room becomes a stage, the kitchen a dance floor, the hallway an impromptu runway. There is music in our bones, laughter in the walls. She moves like she carries joy in her veins, and I wonder if she knows how much of that joy is mine, too.

And then, there is the way she dances—unapologetic, loose-limbed, wild with joy. There is something healing in seeing her so free in my presence. Something that knots and unknots inside me at the same time. When I was her age, I was careful. I don’t blame my mother—she loved me, I know that. But her presence made me uptight, made me measure my words and movements, made me hold myself differently. Love with its own formality, a quiet contract we never discussed but honored.

But Zawadi—she dances, and there is no contract. Just freedom. She moves like the world has done her no wrong, and in her presence, I let myself believe it, too.

We go on walks together. Sometimes we talk about nothing, sometimes everything. She asks big questions, ones that make me pause. She questions the world with a softness that reminds me to look closer, to stay curious.

At night, our home slows into a different kind of rhythm. The world outside dims, but inside, there is still light. She lingers in my room, reluctant to say goodnight, arms still reaching for one last embrace. We talk in whispers—about school, about boys, the little things, about nothing at all. And then, like clockwork, she leans in and cups my face. It is her signature, her unspoken way of saying, "I love you, I’m here."

And then, there are the moments I wish I could trap in amber, hold still forever.

The way she cups my face, often, without thinking.

The way she says, “You haven’t hugged me today,” before pulling me into an embrace so tight, it feels like she’s trying to tell me something without words.

The way I catch her in the mirror, mid-dance, lost in her own world, singing under her breath, spinning in her own light.

She is growing too fast. But I hope she carries this with her—the openness, the affection, the questioning, the confidence. The way she takes up space and knows she belongs.

I hope she never stops singing in the shower. That she never loses the lightness in her steps, the freedom in her movements. That she always remembers how she fits so effortlessly into my space, and into my heart.

And I hope, no matter how tall she grows, no matter where life pulls her, she always finds her way back here. To me. To the music. To the dance. To the scent of too much perfume in the morning air.

I hope my porch is always lined up with flowers from all the girls she used to be, reminding her that she's home. That I'm home. 

And in the quiet of the night, when tears may well up in the corner of her eyes as is custom with life, I hope one thing is loud and clear to her - I cherish her. Deeply.