Amina loved her mother deeply. Every day, her phone lit up with messages. Some were simple — “Did you eat?” Some were heavy — “I feel so lonely today.” Some carried quiet expectation — “You’re the only one who understands me.” Amina listened. Always. She reassured. Explained. Comforted. Adjusted her schedule. And slowly, without realizing it, she began to feel tired in a way sleep didn’t fix. After every call, her chest felt tight. She felt guilty for wanting space… and guilty again for feeling resentful. One evening, after a particularly long conversation, Amina sat quietly with herself and asked: “Why do I feel like I disappear every time I try to be a good daughter?” She wasn’t angry at her mother. She wasn’t ungrateful. She just felt… drained. That night, a realization settled softly in her heart: My mother loves me. But somewhere along the way, I became her emotional anchor instead of Allah. This thought scared her at first. Then it freed her. The next day, Amina didn’t withdraw. She didn’t become cold. She didn’t start setting harsh boundaries. She simply changed how she showed up. When her mother called in distress, Amina listened — but she didn’t rush to solve. She validated the feeling, then gently said: “Let’s make duʿā together.” When complaints repeated, Amina stayed calm — not absorbed. She reminded herself: Compassion does not mean carrying what is not mine. She reduced urgency, not love. Presence, not respect. Slowly, something shifted. Her mother began pausing before calling. She started finding comfort in prayer, in routine, in other relationships. Not because Amina abandoned her — but because Amina returned her reliance back to Allah. And Amina? She felt lighter. She was still a dutiful daughter. But now, she was also whole. She learned that: - Honouring parents does not mean emotional self-erasure - Balance is not distance — it is regulated closeness - And sometimes, the most loving thing you can dois refuse to replace Allah in someone’s heart