February 2026

February 1

Our homemade Pitha Utshob was everything we hoped it would be, and more. Four couples gathered at a friend's house for the entire day, and of course, you were there too, my little pudding, quietly enjoying the festivities from inside your mother's belly.

The day was filled with laughter, endless conversations, and so much food. Everyone had prepared multiple types of pithas, each one more delicious than the last. We ate almost nonstop, sampling every variety, comparing recipes, and celebrating our little corner of Bengali culture here in Frankfurt.

Your mother was particularly happy. After missing out on the pithas at the earlier event, she finally got to enjoy them all. She ate with such joy, savoring each bite. Watching her, I couldn't help but worry a little about diabetes, but let's hope for the best.

February 3

My back pain still hasn't gone away. It's especially bad in the early mornings, right after I wake up. The stiffness makes it hard to start the day, and I know I need to do something about it.

I went to see a physiotherapist today, hoping for some relief, but apparently I need an Überweisung, a referral from my house doctor. I didn't know that, so I left empty-handed. Another appointment to schedule, another step in the process. Sometimes the German healthcare system feels like navigating a maze.

February 4

We were watching television together in the evening when suddenly your mother started reacting. "Oh, the baby is moving! He's scratching, it tickles!" She squirmed and shifted, making sudden movements in response to yours. I couldn't help but laugh, watching her react to your little gymnastics routine inside her belly.

Then I reached over and gently touched her belly, placing my hand where I thought you might be.

And just like that, everything went still. You stopped moving completely.

Did you feel my touch, my son? Did you recognize your father's hand? In that quiet moment, with my palm resting on your mother's belly, I felt closer to you than ever before. Even though we haven't met face to face yet, maybe you already know I'm here, waiting for you, protecting you, loving you.

February 7

Your mother went to a parental class today, the first day of a two-day course designed for new parents. I wanted to go with her but there's a catch: while the course is covered by health insurance for mothers, fathers have to pay an extra 150 euros.

Given our current financial situation, that's not an expense we can easily afford right now. So we made a practical decision: your mother would attend, absorb everything she could, and then share it all with me later.

The class ran from 10 AM to 5 PM, a full day of learning about newborn care, feeding, sleeping patterns, and all the things first-time parents need to know. When she came home in the evening, she was tired but energized, eager to tell me everything she'd learned. We sat together, and she walked me through the day, the techniques, the advice, the reassurances from the instructor.

February 8

A dear friend visited us today, someone I consider a chhoto bhai, a younger brother. We've known each other since our days in Kiel, and though he lives here in Frankfurt, he'd been away in Bangladesh for the past four months to get married.

I wanted to make the evening special, so I spent time in the kitchen preparing something different: Asian fusion. When your mother came home, the three of us sat down for dinner together.

He already knew about you, of course, but telling him the full story in person (the ultrasounds, the concerns about your heart, the relief from the neonatal specialist, your little movements that make your mother laugh) made everything feel more real. There's something about sharing news face to face that digital messages can never quite capture.

February 11

Tomorrow, Bangladesh goes to the polls, and like millions of Bangladeshis around the world, I am filled with anticipation.

This is no ordinary election. For nearly 16 years, Bangladesh endured a regime that suffocated democracy, manipulated results, and silenced its people. Then in August 2024, something extraordinary happened: the youth of Bangladesh rose up, stood their ground, and toppled that fascist ruler. An interim government held the country together for 18 months, and now, finally, we are on the eve of a genuinely free election.

I believe this election will decide the fate of Bangladesh for generations to come. I spent the entire evening glued to the television, flipping between news channels and political shows, absorbing every analysis, every prediction.

And I did my part too. I already cast my vote last month through the postal voting system, from here in Frankfurt, thousands of kilometers away. My son, no matter where life takes you, never forget where you come from. And never take your right to vote for granted.

February 12

The election closed today, and by Bangladesh's standards, it was nothing short of remarkable. Almost no violence, no widespread misconduct, no shadows of manipulation. The early results suggest that the Bangladesh National Party is heading toward a majority. A new leader, a new chapter, and for the first time in a long time, genuine hope.

I am hopeful, my son. Deeply hopeful.

But today was also busy for a different reason. Tomorrow is my birthday, and as has become our little tradition, your mother and I are heading off on a short trip to celebrate both my birthday and Valentine's Day together. This year, I'm taking her to Amsterdam, one of my favourite cities in the world. I've been there several times, mostly for work, but for your mother it will be the very first time. I cannot wait to see it through her eyes.

February 13

So it's your father's birthday today.

We had a small celebration at midnight. Your mother always makes a cake on my birthday, but with all the trip preparations, there simply wasn't time this year. So instead she bought two small slices of cake, we lit a candle, and we celebrated just the two of us (and you, of course). She also gave me a beautiful shirt, a perfume, and a heartfelt birthday card. It was simple, but it was perfect.

Then came Deutsche Bahn.

We woke up early to catch our train to Amsterdam, and almost immediately received a text that one of our connections was cancelled. Classic. We rerouted through Cologne, then switched to a train toward Utrecht, which then sat at the platform for over an hour before finally departing, only to stop several more times along the way. By the time we arrived in Amsterdam, we were more than two hours behind schedule. Your mother, exhausted and without a proper meal, was understandably cranky. We quickly found food, checked into the hotel, and she collapsed into a short nap.

I had already booked tickets to the Van Gogh Museum, and despite the rough journey, your mother refused to let the day be ruined. So together we went.

This moment carried more meaning than I can easily explain. The first time I visited Amsterdam was back in 2018. I was just a student then, walking past the Van Gogh Museum with empty pockets, looking up at the entrance and thinking: maybe someday. I walked away that day with a quiet wish in my heart, that one day I would come back and walk through those doors with the person I love.

Yesterday, that wish came true. And as a beautiful, unexpected bonus, you were there too, tucked safely inside your mother's belly, experiencing it all with us.

Did you feel the colour and the emotion in Van Gogh's brushstrokes, my son? Did you sense the swirling skies of Starry Night, the golden warmth of his sunflowers? I like to think you did.

Happy birthday to me. What a gift you already are.

February 14

What a day. What a beautifully unhurried, romantic, memorable day.

We started slowly, the way the best days should begin. A long, leisurely breakfast at the hotel, savoring good food without rushing anywhere.

Then we stepped out into Amsterdam. We wandered through the old city, following the curves of the canals, admiring the tall, narrow houses leaning gently over the water. There's a timeless quality to Amsterdam's streets, cobblestones and bicycles and bridges, as if the city exists slightly outside of ordinary life. We decided to see it the best way possible and hopped on a canal tour. Gliding through the waterways on a comfortable boat, the city unfolding around us from a completely different perspective, it was simply wonderful.

After the tour, we were hungry, and Amsterdam delivered. We found a Surinamese restaurant and sat down to one of the most delicious meals of the trip. With our energy restored, we headed to Ripley's Believe It or Not! Museum, and it turned out to be a fantastic choice. Strange, surprising, and endlessly entertaining. Your mother absolutely loved it, her laughter echoing through every room.

February 15

We left Amsterdam today. The train journey back was much smoother this time. Home by evening.

February 16

I had the day off. Your mom went to the gynecologist for a gestational diabetes test.

Something magical happened in the evening. We were watching TV when she unexpectedly gasped, "Feel this, he is moving!" I gently placed my hand on her belly, but there was only stillness. She pressed my palm a bit firmer against her skin, and right then, a tiny kick thumped against my fingers.

I finally sensed you, my son, for the very first time in my life. Did you feel me too?

February 17

Today was both a very special and a very heavy day.

Your chacha got married today in Bangladesh. He found his person, and your chachi is now the newest member of our family. We couldn't be there, but we were connected through video calls, watching, waving, celebrating from thousands of kilometers away.

Then came the other news.

Your mother has been diagnosed with gestational diabetes. Her blood sugar was high and the gynecologist advised seeing a diabetologist immediately. I was in the office but stopped everything to find an appointment. Luckily we got one. The doctor advised insulin.

When I saw your mother after work, she was completely broken. She was crying, and her only thought was you. She just wants you to be safe.

February 18

Your mother feels a bit better today. She spoke to a few relatives and friends who went through the same thing during their pregnancies. They assured her it is not uncommon and can be controlled with a balanced diet and exercise. She has already cut down on carbs and is eating more vegetables.

February 19

Ramadan starts today. This one feels different. Last year it was just the two of us. This time, we have you. Insha'Allah, next year you will be here with us in flesh and blood.

During my prayers, I prayed deeply for your health, your mother's health, and that you come into this world as a healthy baby.

Ramadan Mubarak, my son.

February 20

It was a quiet day. Your mother prepared a beautiful iftar for me, but sadly, she couldn't enjoy it herself due to her diabetes.

The hardest part, however, is watching her prick her fingertip with a needle to test her blood sugar. Six times a day. On top of that, she has to take insulin injections. I feel her pain with every strike.

I try to comfort her, reminding her that this struggle is only temporary. Just a little while longer for you, my son. Then, Insha'Allah, everything will be fine again.

February 22

We were invited to a friend’s house for iftar today, joined by a couple of others. It was a much-needed mental break from the heavy stress of navigating your mom's diabetes.

The table was packed with delicious dishes, which, unfortunately, she had to skip. Despite the strict diet, the evening was full of warm conversations and genuine laughter.

Later, one of your aunts made us some tea but added salt! She claimed it’s a tradition from her home village. The flavor was certainly peculiar; I had never tasted a salty tea before. I teased her endlessly, warning her that this unforgettable culinary experiment was absolutely making its way into this journal for you to read one day.

February 23

I came home a bit exhausted after work today, probably dehydrated too. Your mother had prepared a lovely iftar, but she could barely touch any of it, managing only a little soup because of her diabetes. Sitting down to eat without her joining me felt hollow. The food lost some of its taste.

February 24

Your mother went to the Uniklinikum today for an ultrasound, a follow-up examination linked to her recently detected diabetes. The doctor took extended time, checking everything carefully and thoroughly, and at the end assured your mother that all was looking good.

But the highlight, according to your mother, was you.

Apparently when they placed the scanning device on her belly, you were not very pleased about it. You wriggled, kicked, and made your displeasure very clear, as if to say: enough with the poking and prodding already!

I burst out laughing hearing this. Even before you arrive, you already have a personality, my son. Bold, cheeky, and not afraid to express yourself.

I wonder where you get that from.