advice

It takes a village to raise a family; advice and tips to make the most of yours.

The Empty Mansion and the Small Hut: A Lesson in True Wealth
By Hazrat Umer Why having everything money can buy might still leave you with nothing. I once knew a man named Sameer. Sameer was a very successful businessman in 2020. He had everything a person could dream of: a giant mansion with marble floors, three expensive cars, and a bank account that never ended. He was always busy, moving from one meeting to another, his phone ringing every second. People looked at him and said, "He is the luckiest man in the world."
By Hazrat Umerabout 6 hours ago in Families
The Night Everything Fell Apart
The Night Everything Fell Apart Ubaid I used to believe that life collapses slowly—like a building with cracks that warn you before it falls. I was wrong. Sometimes, everything shatters in a single night. It was a Thursday evening when the sky looked strangely heavy, as if it knew something I didn’t. I remember sitting at my desk, pretending to work while my mind wandered through unfinished conversations and silent disappointments. My phone lay beside me, face down, as if hiding from the truth it was about to deliver. At 9:17 p.m., it rang. I almost didn’t answer. It was my younger sister, Areeba. She rarely called me at night. Her voice trembled when I picked up. “Bhai… you need to come home.” There are certain tones in a person’s voice that freeze your blood. This was one of them. “What happened?” I asked, already standing up, my heart racing. “Just come. Please.” The drive home felt endless. Every red light felt personal, as though the universe had chosen to delay me. My mind ran through a hundred possibilities—none of them good. By the time I reached the house, my hands were shaking. The front door was open. That was the first sign that something was wrong. Inside, the living room lights were on, but the house felt darker than ever. My mother sat on the couch, her face pale, her hands wrapped tightly around her scarf. Areeba stood beside her, eyes red from crying. “Where’s Abbu?” I asked. No one answered. That silence said more than words ever could. “He left,” my mother finally whispered. Left. The word didn’t make sense. My father wasn’t the kind of man who “left.” He was the quiet pillar of our home—the one who paid the bills, fixed broken taps, and watched the news every night at exactly 10 p.m. “He said he couldn’t do this anymore,” Areeba said, her voice cracking. “He packed a bag and walked out.” It felt like the floor shifted beneath me. For years, I had noticed the tension. The late-night arguments behind closed doors. The cold silences at dinner. The forced smiles during family gatherings. But I had convinced myself it was temporary. Every family has problems, I thought. We’ll get through it. That night, I realized denial can be a dangerous comfort. “Did he say where he’s going?” I asked. My mother shook her head. “He just said he needs peace.” Peace. The word echoed bitterly in my mind. What about us? What about the peace of the family he was leaving behind? I walked into my parents’ bedroom. The cupboard door was slightly open. Half his clothes were gone. His watch box was empty. On the bedside table, there was a folded piece of paper. It wasn’t addressed to anyone. Just a few lines in his familiar handwriting: I tried. I really did. But sometimes staying hurts more than leaving. Forgive me. I read it three times, hoping the meaning would change. It didn’t. Anger rose inside me like fire. How could he walk away? How could he leave my mother to explain this to relatives, to neighbors, to a society that thrives on whispers? How could he leave Areeba, who still needed him to check her math homework? And how could he leave me—with the sudden weight of being “the man of the house”? That night, everything fell apart—not just our family structure, but the illusions I had built around it. Around midnight, the power went out. Normally, we would joke about the timing. That night, no one said a word. The house sank into darkness, lit only by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. I sat on the floor beside my mother. For the first time in my life, she looked small. “I failed,” she murmured. “You didn’t,” I said quickly, though I wasn’t sure what I believed. “This isn’t your fault.” But blame has a way of creeping into broken spaces. It fills the gaps with questions that have no answers. Around 2 a.m., my phone buzzed. A message from Abbu. Take care of them. That was it. No explanation. No location. No promise to return. Just a responsibility handed over like an inheritance. I stared at the screen, my chest tight. I wanted to call him, to shout, to demand answers. Instead, I turned the phone off. Because deep down, I knew this wasn’t just about one fight or one bad day. This was years of unspoken pain finally spilling over. As the night stretched on, reality settled in. Tomorrow, I would have to face relatives asking uncomfortable questions. I would have to manage finances I barely understood. I would have to be strong for my sister when I felt like collapsing myself. But in that darkness, something unexpected happened. We talked. For the first time in years, my mother opened up about her loneliness. About how silence had replaced partnership. About how pride had stopped both of them from seeking help. Areeba admitted she had heard more arguments than we realized. And I confessed that I had seen the cracks but chose to ignore them because it was easier than confronting the truth. The night that broke us also stripped us of pretenses. By dawn, the sky softened into pale blue. Birds began to chirp as if nothing had changed. But everything had. Our family would never look the same again. There would be judgment, financial strain, and emotional wounds that wouldn’t heal overnight. There would be moments of anger and days of deep sadness. Yet, as sunlight slowly filled the room, I understood something important: Falling apart doesn’t always mean the end. Sometimes, it’s the beginning of rebuilding—without lies, without forced smiles, without pretending everything is fine. That night, I lost the version of my family I thought I had. But I gained something else. Clarity. Strength I didn’t know I possessed. And the painful, necessary understanding that love cannot survive where honesty is absent. The night everything fell apart was the worst night of my life.
By Ubaid about 7 hours ago in Families
The Cracks in Our Walls: Why Our Homes Have Lost Their Peace
By Hazrat Umer The Secret to a Happy Family: Why Justice and Character Matter More Than Money Today, if you look at almost any house, you will see a sad reality. On the outside, the house looks beautiful. But on the inside, there is no peace. In almost every home, people are fighting. Parents are arguing with children, brothers are fighting with sisters, and married couples are struggling to stay together.
By Hazrat Umerabout 12 hours ago in Families
The Stranger in Apartment 406
When Rayan moved into Apartment 406, he believed the hardest part would be adjusting to living alone. The building was old but affordable, nestled between two busy streets in the city center. The landlord described it as “quiet” and “mostly occupied by professionals,” which suited Rayan perfectly. He wanted peace, a place to focus on his new job and forget the chaos of his past. At first, everything seemed normal. He unpacked essentials, ordered takeout, and fell asleep on a mattress placed on the floor. The hum of distant traffic seeped faintly through the window, and the apartment felt like the safe cocoon he had longed for.
By Sudais Zakwana day ago in Families
Being a Single Mother is not easy....
Women would say it is biased when it comes to being a single mother however it is not easy. Absolutely not!!!! This is coming from a single mother born from a single mother of 3 learning a lot from her. In this story, this doesn't just involves me and my mother and all the single mothers reading this story. This tragic story involves on how difficult it can be a single mother. This story involves with a young mother age 21 with 2 kids named Livi Jaay. It is unclear what she does however that she lived in Texas with her kids. She has posted on Facebook that she had battled depression and express her mental being on social media.
By Gladys W. Muturi2 days ago in Families
Wait, is it okay not to go home for the Holidays?
Kids these days are choosing to stay home rather than see their parents or their other family members for the holidays. I found it a bit absurd and tried to explain that it is important to bond with family, because you don’t know when you'll see them again, until someone called me out for not having visited my family in over 20 years.
By stephanie borges2 days ago in Families
Professor Carlton Jama Adams and the Architecture of Intentional Parenting. AI-Generated.
Modern parenting exists at the intersection of tradition and transformation. Families today are navigating rapid cultural shifts, digital immersion, evolving educational expectations, and growing awareness around mental and emotional health. In the middle of these changes, many parents are searching for guidance that feels grounded, practical, and human. The ideas often associated with Professor Carlton Jama Adams speak to this moment by emphasizing that raising resilient children begins with intentional daily choices rather than rigid formulas or perfection.
By Carlton Adams2 days ago in Families
Why Most Households End Up Using Self Storage
Self storage is one of those things most households do not plan for. Very few people move into a home thinking they will need extra space somewhere else. Yet over time, more and more households end up renting a storage unit, often for reasons that feel completely unavoidable.
By Your NZ Local3 days ago in Families
What Fathers Uniquely Provide
The Error of Treating Parenting Roles as Functionally Identical Modern parenting theory often begins with the assumption that mothers and fathers are largely interchangeable, differing only in style or temperament. From this view, any deficits in one parent can be compensated for by the other through increased emotional effort, sensitivity, or presence. Parenting becomes a question of intention and quantity rather than function and role. This assumption is appealing because it aligns with cultural preferences for symmetry and fairness, but it collapses under closer examination of developmental outcomes.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast4 days ago in Families
When Desire Replaces Compassion
When the river first arrived in Devpur, it was not called a miracle. It was simply water, flowing where water always had. It curved around the village like a patient guardian, feeding fields, filling wells, and cooling tired feet at dusk. Children learned to swim in it before they learned to write their names. Elders sat by its banks every evening, arguing about harvests and memories with equal seriousness. No one thought to own it. No one thought to sell it.
By Ibrahim Shah 5 days ago in Families
The day of silence
When Quiet Speaks Louder Than Words The town of Nandipur was not known for silence. It lived on chatter—vendors calling out prices, children racing through narrow lanes, radios humming behind half-closed doors, and neighbors debating everything from politics to rainfall. Words filled every corner, as if silence were something to be feared.
By Ibrahim Shah 5 days ago in Families
Property Settlement: Contributions Explained
Property settlements have this way of feeling like a math problem… while also being one of the most emotional things a person can go through.
By Dan Toombs7 days ago in Families