She’s making a tiny pink dress for Sheldon, her grandchild's toy. She knits even as she watches bombs explode on TV – even as an endless news cycle of death, destruction and desperation takes over her daily thoughts.
He sits scowling on a La-Z-Boy, the one she bought him for his birthday. The same one he dozes off on before taking three steps to bed. He’s trying to stay awake to watch the Lebanese drama series that comes on at 10.30pm. He pretends to only watch it because she makes him but, secretly, he loves it.
They’re my mum and dad. Both, over 70 years old. I can’t write their real ages because I wouldn’t hear the end of it. They know they’re old – and they are, in many ways, embracing it.
But like many Palestinians living abroad, the past two years have been devastating. My parents have watched helplessly as their people have been killed in Gaza, where the death toll has surpassed 73,000 despite a ceasefire. Even in a safe city such as Abu Dhabi, I have watched their world grow noticeably smaller since October 7, 2023. It has made the role of their children all the more important.
Thankfully, they have five.
Nobody really prepares you for the moment your parents begin to need you in the same way you once needed them.
Not financially or practically, although there is some of that. It is emotional. It is realising that the people who once absorbed your fears, solved your problems and made the world feel manageable now need reassurance themselves. The roles never fully reverse, but they do begin to blur.
I still catch myself thinking of my parents as they were when I was younger – energetic, capable, certain. But time moves in only one direction, and now the instinct is to fill their days with small moments of joy that might briefly distract them from everything they have lost, and everything they fear losing.
My parents no longer look forward to gathering for dinners and celebrations with their friends. Now, all they want is to be with us, their children and my cat Baby Cino.
For several months now, I have been taking Baby Cino to see them. The little furball's antics – climbing on top of the wardrobe, or rolling around a carpet with her paws sticking up and her head lopsided – not only distracts them from the death and destruction they can't help but watch, but also puts a little smile on their face.
Baby Cino, with her tiny body, huge eyes, overwhelming cream fur and adorable little paw-taps whenever she wants to be petted, has touched their hearts. What strikes me is not how much they love her, but how little it takes these days to make them happy.
For my father, it is bowling.
Over the years, his health has become more complicated. Diabetes, kidney issues, chronic back pain and a growing list of physical limitations have forced him to slow down in ways that clearly frustrate him. For a while, my siblings and I tried to help him fight back. We convinced him to work with a trainer. We drove him to the gym. Then one day, he announced he wanted to quit the gym and go bowling instead.
He reminded us, repeatedly, that he used to be a champion.
I smiled and explained that bowling could not possibly replace exercise. He ignored me completely. To his credit, he remains remarkably committed to this theory. Even on days when he is too tired or sore to consider a workout, he somehow finds the energy to pick up a bowling ball.
So now we go bowling on Sundays.
For my mother, joy arrives differently. Sometimes it is through Baby Cino. Sometimes it is a car ride with music that she absolutely should not enjoy, but somehow knows all the words to. Sometimes it is simply speaking her mind.
Age has made her more honest in ways I deeply admire. She no longer has the patience for social obligations she does not enjoy or conversations that go nowhere. She tells friends when she disagrees with them. She tells neighbours when they should do better. She has informed almost everyone she knows that she no longer attends weddings unless they belong to one of her children or close family members.
There is something liberating about watching someone spend decades worrying about what others think, only to eventually decide they no longer care.
This is all to say that living with ageing parents is both a privilege and a heartbreak.
You watch them become softer, slower and, in some ways, smaller. The people who once seemed capable of carrying the weight of the world now ask where you parked the car, whether you've eaten and if you'll be back in time for dinner. They knit tiny dresses for toys, laugh at cats they once feared and find joy in places they might once have overlooked.
It is incredible to witness this transformation, but it is also a little sad.
I write this because I want to document, for myself, that I am one of the blessed few who gets to be with them during this stage of their lives. To watch them change. To support them. To bring them small moments of happiness in the safety of their crowded little home while the world outside – and the homeland they still think about every day – feels increasingly distant and uncertain.
The little moments matter. I am sure they matter to them as much as they do to me. The only difference is that I will probably remember them for a little longer.
