It was the early-morning phone call that so many of us dread. My mother was in the emergency ward of her local hospital. She was struggling to breathe. I went into automatic mode, booking the first available flight to Karachi. I threw clothes into a bag, grabbed my passport and headed for Brussels airport with a heavy heart.
Only 12 hours earlier, we had spoken on the phone. It was my birthday. She was her usual cheerful self, her signature laugh ringing out as she regaled me with stories from my childhood. She asked about my granddaughter – her great-granddaughter, whom she adored – and wanted to know what I was working on and where I planned to travel next.
