The Day We Knew

It was the fifth of Ramadan — the twenty-third of February — and the morning was still soft. Your mother woke before your father, as she so often does in those quiet hours, and carried a small test into the stillness of the next room. When she came back, her hands were trembling, and her eyes were full. Two lines. Faint, but certain. You.

Your father was still asleep. She could not bear the silence a moment longer, so she woke him — gently, then not so gently — and held it out without a word. It took him a moment to understand. And then the whole house changed. He sat up, and he laughed, and he held your mother, and for a long while neither of them could speak. Everything we had hoped for, everything we had prayed for through so many quiet Ramadans, was suddenly here — in two faint lines on a small white strip.

The doctor told us, later that day, that you had already been growing for five weeks and five days — a whole small life, forming in secret, while we went on with our ordinary days. You were there, and we did not know. Your father closed his eyes, and in a voice thick with gratitude he said: Alhamdulillah — thanks to Allah, for this precious gift. And he meant it with all of him.

That is the morning you began for us — not the morning of your making, which we will never mark, but the morning we first knew you were coming. Every prayer since has carried you, even before we knew your name. You were our Ramadan gift, Nissa. You still are.

— With grateful hearts,

Zubair & Sidra

The Day We Saw You

On the first of April, your mother went to see Dr Naseem Yousuf, in Rasheedabad, Multan. It was your very first ultrasound — the first time anyone had properly looked at you.

They could not yet tell us whether you were a boy or a girl. That was still a secret, kept between you and Allah. But on the small bright screen, we saw you for the first time — a tiny curved shape, already stirring, already yourself. And they printed us a picture to keep: your very first portrait.

You were ten weeks and three days old that day, and already so completely you. We did not yet know your face, or your name, or whether you were the daughter your father had been quietly praying for. We knew only that you were there, and that you were ours. And that, for a long while, was more than enough.

— The first time we saw you,

Zubair & Sidra

Safe, and Growing

A little over a week later, we went back for a routine scan — not for any worry, only to see that you were safe, and going well. And you were. You were seventeen weeks old by then, and already so much more formed than the last time we had seen you.

The doctor told us you were lying in the opposite position — breech, they call it — bottom-first instead of head-first. It is nothing to fear at this age; you still have months to turn. But hearing it made us hold our breath for a moment, the way you do when you are told anything new about someone you love. Then the doctor smiled, and said you were healthy, and growing exactly as you should. Alhamdulillah.

You may turn around a dozen times before you are born — you have the room, and the time, and the will. Whenever you settle, and however you come into the world, we will be here. The only thing the scan really told us that day is what we already knew: that you are ours, and you are well, and that is enough.

— Checking on you, always,

Zubair & Sidra

The Day We Knew Who You Were

On the third of July, we drove to Islamabad Diagnostic Centre, in Multan, for a detailed anomaly scan — a long, careful look at you. You were so still, and so completely formed already. They measured you in quiet, precise ways, and at the end of it they handed us a small sheaf of paper: the first official document of your life. By their measure, you were twenty-three weeks and six days old — a whole small person, growing exactly as you should.

They told us, too, the day they expect you — the twenty-fourth of October. A date we hold softly now, knowing you will come when you are ready, and not a day before.

And then they told us something we had not known. They told us you were a girl. You have no idea how your papa’s face broke open then — he had been wishing for a daughter all along, quietly, in every prayer. Your mama had thought, at first, that she might hope for a son; but when she heard it was you, she could not stop smiling. Allah knows what is best for us, and His choice is always kinder than our own wishes. You were your papa’s wish, and Allah made it true. And your brother, inshallah, may come to us in time — for everyone is allowed a wish, and we will wish again.

We accept what Allah has written, gladly. His hikmat is above our understanding, and His actions are always in our favour. You are the wish, and He fulfilled it. We pray now only that you come to us safely — that you bring happiness and luck with you, and that you live a long, healthy life full of imaan. Aameen.

— Your first portrait, and our first joy,

Zubair & Sidra

On the Name You Carry

For many days we turned the question over — what name to give you. We thought of so many. But in the end, the answer had been with us all along, in the person we could not stop remembering: your Dadi. Zaibunnissa. Your father’s mother, who left us in 2003.

It was your papa who suggested it first. He said it quietly, the way you say something you have already decided in your heart. Your mother agreed at once — and so it was settled. You would carry her name forward, into a life she did not live to see.

We have kept two names beside it for the household to use — Nissa, or Zaiba. We have not yet decided which one we will call you at your door; that will be whichever answers first, whichever fits the face we have not yet seen. But know this: whatever we call you day to day, you are, and will always be, Zaibunnissa.

It is a royal name — borne by queens and poets in the old courts, rare and singular. It means “beauty of womankind, women’s splendour.” There is no other quite like it, just as there will be no other quite like you. When you are old enough to ask about your name, we will tell you about hers — about the woman who carried it first, and whose memory you now keep.

— In memory, and in hope,

Zubair & Sidra

A Place of Your Own

The day after your name was decided, your papa did a small, quiet thing. He registered a name for you on the internet — zaibunnissa.com — a little piece of the world that is yours, and only yours.

This is what it is for: to keep a record of every event that passes for you, from these first hidden weeks until the day you arrive. And not only until then. We mean to keep writing as you grow — the firsts, the small wonders, the ordinary days that quietly become memories — until one day, inshallah, you are old enough to hold this yourself, and these pages become your own.

Until that day, we hold them for you. And we pray — for strength, for health, for wisdom, and for the power of imaan. May Allah guard your every step, and make of your life something beautiful. Aameen.

— Holding these pages for you,

Zubair & Sidra