My Mother’s Diary

My mother was chatting and laughing with the neighbors on the lush green grass. As their joyful laughter rose into the sky, suddenly dark clouds blanketed the heavens. A light rain began to fall. The women ran toward their homes. Thunder cracked through the sky, followed by a heavy downpour.

There’s a unique pleasure in watching the rain from behind a window—especially when the raindrops tap against the glass, stirring your thoughts. As I sat with a cup of coffee, the scene outside awakened memories. The rain wouldn’t stop. The streets were silent. Then the power went out. I reached for a candle, searching for matches. As always, they were probably in the box near the old cabinet where my mother’s photos were kept.

Indeed, when I opened the box, I was surprised to find my mother’s worn-out diary. I lit the candle and began to flip through it… I had seen the diary before but never read it. Now, as I turned each page, every line felt like a finger pressing on my heart.

Lightning lit up the room as if emphasizing each word. My little brothers, scared, buried their heads under the blanket while my mother listened to a greeting on the radio.

As a child, I was afraid to touch that notebook. My mother would scold me sharply:
— “Don’t touch it without permission, it’s mine!”

But today… with a trembling heart, I asked shyly:
— “Mom, may I read your diary?”

— “Alright… just be careful, the pages are very old. Inside are my childhood, my sorrows,” she said, her eyes filled with sorrow and permission at once.

The first entry was about a trip to Samarkand—I read it with delight. But the next page had a blank space that shook me.

“Why?”—I used to ask my mother such questions when I was little.
— “Mom, why does everyone have a father, but you don’t?”

She would sigh deeply, gaze at the sky, and with sadness in her voice reply:
— “My father flew to the sky. He’s watching over us from there. But don’t ever mention it when your aunt comes to visit!”

One particular line in the diary broke my heart:
“Spring, I hate you. When you come, I’m afraid you’ll take someone away again…”

That line unlocked more fragments from the past. When my older brother came home with wild spinach, my mother angrily gave it to the animals. My brother would plead:
— “Mom, please make green somsa! Jasur’s mom did!”

— “No! Just eat what I’ve made in silence!” she’d snap, and it used to irritate me.

Back then, I didn’t understand her harshness. But now… I think I do. Her dislike of spring, of green somsa—those were silent echoes of pain, memories tied to her father.

Further in the diary, there was a photograph of her father—tall, dark-haired, and dignified. Below it, a line read:

“Today was unforgettable. My father didn’t go to work!”

— “Daddy, aren’t you going to work?” I asked.

— “No! Today I’ll spend time with you all!”

But early in the morning, his friends came over, saying, “Let’s go to the mountains.” My sister cried:

— “So you’re not staying again?”

— “That’s enough! Don’t embarrass us in front of his friends!” my mother scolded as she took my sister away.

Was it necessary to go to the mountains on that rainy day?

The final lines of the diary tore at my soul:
“Father didn’t want to go. He said, ‘My feet feel heavy today.’ But he went anyway. We made green somsa and waited for him… He never came back.”

Reading these lines by candlelight, the rain hitting the window, and the wind outside felt like they were singing the sorrow in my mother’s heart.

Only now do I understand—this diary wasn’t just a collection of words, it was my mother’s silent scream.

I think my grandmother’s words had truth. My father would leave for work at dawn, long before we woke up. Sometimes he wouldn’t return for days—he carried the burden of two families.

Yet my grandmother supported him unconditionally. Even when he brought another woman with a child into our home, she welcomed them with kindness, offering new clothes without a glance of resentment. A different woman might have thrown her out, but my grandmother understood everything from my father’s eyes—without needing words.

That cursed day, my father left with his friends for the mountains. My sisters and I started making green somsa. In just an hour, it was ready. My grandmother had gone to a neighbor’s house to spin yarn. The house was tidy, our hearts filled with joy. For us, Father skipping work was a celebration.

But that celebration didn’t last long. Our neighbor, Eshim bobo, burst into the house—his slippers mismatched, face pale with fear.

— “Sharofat! Sharofat!” he shouted.

My sister’s face darkened:
— “Is everything okay? Speak quickly!” she said sarcastically.

— “Sharofat, Amir… there’s been an accident…”

— “What?! What are you saying?!” My mother’s breath caught, her gaze suspended midair. “This can’t be true!”

— “At first, I didn’t believe it either… but it’s real, sister. You must go to your in-laws’ home. They say he’s in critical condition…”

— “Tell me clearly! What happened?! Why are you suddenly saying such things?!”

Just then, my uncle and his friend arrived. They loaded us into the car, and we set off. The half-hour journey felt eternal for our shattered hearts.

When we reached my grandfather’s house, my grandmother was crying loudly, the house filled with grief. I was seized by panic. I desperately wanted to see my father—to hear someone say, “It’s not him.” But my legs trembled, my heart pounded.

Strangers kept entering—men with bloody hands, scarves at their waists, skullcaps on their heads. When we finally entered the room where my father lay, I saw him.

His watch still ticked on his wrist. His face was bruised, his body scratched. My grandmother let out a wail:
— “Oh, my God!” But we, still too young to comprehend death, didn’t understand why everyone was crying.

My sister tugged at his hand:
— “Dad, get up! Let’s go home! Where’s your car?!” But he didn’t move.

My grandfather wept:
— “You left your children behind, my dear son. How could you bear it?”

Later… we laid him to rest. As they carried his coffin out, the sky wept with us—a torrential rain as if nature, too, was mourning.

My sisters clung to our grandfather:
— “Grandpa, please don’t let them take our dad! You’re strong—stop them! Don’t let them separate us! We love our father!” they sobbed.

My sister screamed at my father’s friend, Rahmatjon uncle. He embraced her tightly, tears streaming down his cheeks.

— “If you hadn’t insisted, this wouldn’t have happened! Why are you silent?! Say something!”

Those questions hung in the air. There were no answers. Father was gone.

We held the memorials. We returned home. But the pain lingered. Every time I looked out the window, I imagined Father driving up again.

Spring, I hate you! You took my father away! I had barely tasted his love. But my little brother—he was only three. And my baby sister… she wasn’t even three months old. Every night my pillow soaked in tears, as if the pain in my heart spilled onto the bed.

Spring, please, don’t come again. The thought that you might take someone else from me makes my skin crawl…

Reading these pages, I couldn’t hold back my tears. We tried hard to fill the hole in my mother’s heart. But no… neither we, nor time, nor even Father himself could fill that emptiness.

That emptiness—was a scream in silence.

Xurshida Suvon qizi Abdisattorova was born on November 9, 1997, in Olmazor village, Chiroqchi district, Kashkadarya region. She is currently a third-year student at the University of Journalism and Mass Communications, majoring in Sports Journalism.

Her articles have been published in newspapers such as “Hurriyat” and “Vaziyat”, as well as on online platforms like “Olamsport” and “Ishonch”. She is also a participant in the international scientific-practical conference titled “Future Scientist – 2025”. Additionally, her article has been featured in the anthology “Let the World Hear My Words”.