As I approach the age of 50, or what I sometimes call my fifth series, I find myself attending more and more ceremonies where my nieces, nephews, and other young family members graduate, complete their studies, or receive their commissions and awards.
At the same time, my own children have been growing up. Year after year, they too have walked onto stages to receive certificates, awards, and recognition for their achievements.
I have five children, and throughout their growing years, their mother was the one who raised and guided them almost entirely on her own whenever I was away. I was often far from home, deeply focused on my career and responsibilities, trying to bring a halal income back to the family.
One day, I happened to come across an old photograph of my own graduation in 2003, followed by another photograph from my wife's graduation the following year.
I remember my graduation ceremony very clearly. Many members of my family had travelled from Kelantan to be there. It was also a special occasion because, for the first time, I introduced my future wife to my extended family.
Then I looked at the next photograph—the memory of my wife's graduation ceremony.
I was there too.
But strangely, I could not remember much about that particular day.
When I told my wife about it, she began to bring those memories back to me. She reminded me that I had taken leave from work, flown all the way from Lahad Datu, Sabah, and made the effort to be there for her graduation.
She even remembered that I had paid for a photographer so that we could have photographs to remember the occasion.
My wife has always been deeply interested in psychology, although she herself graduated with a degree in Aerospace Engineering. She explained something that made me think deeply.
Perhaps, at that time, she said, I felt safe.
And because I felt safe, perhaps my mind did not hold on to many details of the occasion.
Then she told me something I had completely forgotten.
On that day, none of her family members were there.
She had been very sad.
As she told me that, I could imagine how she must have felt standing there on such an important day of her life, receiving her degree in Aerospace Engineering, without her own family around her.
Perhaps that was one of the reasons I had tried so hard to be there.
I may not remember every detail of that day.
But I was there.
Twenty-two years have passed since then.
My wife has since raised five children.
From their earliest days in PASTI kindergarten, through primary and secondary school, all the way to university, she was the person who showed up.
She attended their school ceremonies, graduation ceremonies, award presentations, parents' meetings, and countless other occasions.
Every certificate.
Every award.
Every small achievement.
She was there.
Sometimes, she would jokingly complain about the long names I had given our children. Filling in school forms became a challenge because their names were simply too long!
But behind that little complaint was something much bigger.
For almost twenty years, she had been carrying the responsibility of raising our five children, often while I was away working.
She never missed their important moments.
She was there even for the smallest school ceremonies.
I think again about her own graduation.
When she graduated with a degree in Aerospace Engineering, there was no family member there to celebrate with her.
Yet years later, when our five children began walking onto stages to receive their certificates and awards, their mother was always there.
She never missed them.
Perhaps that is what makes me look differently at every award ceremony today.
When a child walks onto a stage and receives a certificate, medal, trophy, or award, we naturally look at the child.
We congratulate the child.
We celebrate the achievement.
But behind every child who stands proudly on that stage, there is often someone who stood quietly behind them for many years.
Someone who woke them up.
Prepared their meals.
Checked their homework.
Filled in the endless school forms.
Took them to school.
Attended their meetings.
Comforted them when they failed.
Celebrated when they succeeded.
And kept showing up—even when nobody applauded.
For our five children, that person was their mother.
So, whenever our children receive an award and walk onto the stage, I believe there is another person who deserves to stand there too.
Their mother.
Because if the children are the ones receiving the awards, she is the one who helped them become the people worthy of receiving them.
And perhaps, after all these years, I have finally understood something:
Sometimes the person who deserves the biggest award is not the one standing on the stage, but the one who spent twenty years making sure that the child could reach it.
That is my story today.
No comments:
Post a Comment