January 2026: The Year of Becoming Your Father

January 1

Happy New Year, my son.

We welcomed the new year surrounded by close friends, warmth, and, of course, a lot of food. We had arranged a one-dish party at a friend's house in Frankfurt. About fifteen of us gathered there, each bringing something of our own, and together we created a table full of flavors and laughter. I prepared grilled chicken, while your mother baked a beautiful, delicious cake that everyone admired.

As fireworks lit up the sky outside, we enjoyed our meal and talked about our resolutions for 2026. Everyone had their own hopes and plans. And then I realized something about mine.

My resolution for this new year is simple, yet life changing: to become your father.

January 3

Today was quite an exciting day. Though it didn't go exactly according to plan, it turned out even better.

A Bangladeshi community in Frankfurt was hosting a Pitha Utshob, a gathering to share homemade sweets and desserts. At first, neither your mother nor I were very interested, so we woke up late and had a leisurely brunch. I started cooking for later while your mom spoke with a friend who insisted she come to the event, as the friend didn't want to go alone. So, with my cooking only half done, we decided to join. We also invited a couple of other friends, and suddenly our little duo had grown into a group of six.

Your mother then suggested, "Why don't we ask them to come to our place after the event for dinner?" I said, why not? You know me, I always love hosting people.

When we arrived, our initial expectation of a small, casual event quickly vanished. The hall was packed with people from Bangladesh. It felt like a full deshi wedding. Someone hurriedly seated us and handed us plates of biryani. Delicious, but confusing. We had come for pithas, not biryani, and the best part? Everything was free. No need to buy anything.

After enjoying the biryani, we waited for the pithas, and your mother even did a little shopping at a deshi clothing stall for the next Eid. But as time passed, we realized the pithas wouldn't be served until evening, too late for our dinner plans. Your mother was a little sad, but we left the event, returning home to finish cooking the remaining dishes.

By the end of the day, we had a cozy dinner at home with our friends. It wasn't the plan we started with, but somehow it turned into a day full of laughter, food, and togetherness, just the way I like it.

January 4

Today was one of those days that began calm and quiet, turned tense and frightening, and finally ended in deep relief.

It was a Sunday. We woke up a little late, had lunch, and then your mother went out for a walk while I stayed home watching TV. In the evening, she spoke in a tense voice and said she couldn't feel any movement from you. She had felt something similar before, but it usually became normal within a day. This time, however, it had already been three days, and the silence inside her womb worried her deeply.

We searched online and read that in the early stages of pregnancy it's normal not to feel regular movement, but most sources still recommended consulting a doctor. I wasn't fully convinced at first, but your mother insisted we go to the emergency department. Seeing her fear made me nervous too. We quickly got ready and went to the University Hospital Frankfurt Höchst.

We waited for about thirty minutes, but every second felt like an hour. Your mother was almost devastated. Finally, the doctor called us in and performed an ultrasound. Everything looked normal. Then the doctor showed us your heartbeat.

In that moment, my racing heart finally calmed. Your mother nearly cried with relief. The doctor smiled and said you might have simply changed your position, or perhaps you were sleeping peacefully inside your mother's womb.

What a relief. Alhamdulillah.

My son, do make some moves now and then. Ride a bicycle, play some football, do something in there, hahaha.

January 5

Oh boy, just yesterday I asked you to make some moves, maybe ride a bicycle or play some football. How did you get my message so quickly, my dear?

When I came back from the office today, the very first thing I asked your mother was, "Did he move?" She smiled and said, "He didn't just move, it feels like he's playing football in there." I burst out laughing. Then I showed her what I had written in the blog the night before.

After reading it, your mother shook her head and said, "Like father, like son. Always keeping me tense, and never missing a single opportunity to tease me." Hahaha.

I have a feeling you and I are going to make a great team, together making sure your mother never gets bored for a lifetime.

January 6

It was a nice and cozy day today. I didn't go to the office and worked from home instead. It had snowed last night, and the temperature dropped to minus five degrees. For dinner, your mother made chicken soup and pasta salad. We ate while watching TV together, wrapped in the quiet comfort of the evening. I truly love these peaceful moments with your mother, sharing a meal, watching television, and simply being together. Insha'Allah, next winter you will be here with us. It may not be as peaceful with your crying and cooing, but that will be a different kind of joy and happiness altogether.

While we were having dinner, your mother suddenly asked, "How do homeless people survive in the Bahnhofsviertel during this cold?" I had no answer to her question. After a moment, she added, "I am very thankful to Allah. We have a modest life, a roof over our heads, and food in our fridge. We never have to worry about the harsh winter. Aren't we extremely blessed?"

Yes, my son, we are extremely blessed.

In our religion, human beings are called ashraful makhlukat, the best of creation. Not because we stand at the top of the food chain, but because we are gifted with conscience. We can distinguish between right and wrong. We can choose kindness. We can help one another.

And my son, this is my request to you: carry the honor of being ashraful makhlukat. Always be thankful to Allah. And whenever and however possible, help others. If you have money, donate it. If you have extra food, share it with the hungry. And if you have nothing at all, then at the very least, be kind and empathetic toward the vulnerable.

That, my son, is non negotiable.

January 8

I wanted to say many things today, but then I stopped myself. Some things are better left unsaid, at least for now.

Still, my son, I can tell you this much: life is not always easy. One moment everything feels right, as if all the pieces are finally falling into place, and then within seconds something can go wrong and everything feels different. Unsteady. Heavy.

As a man in a patriarchal society, you will often be expected to carry the weight quietly. There will be moments when you want to cry on someone's shoulder, yet feel as if the whole world is standing against you. Strength will be expected of you even when you are tired, confused, or hurting.

During times like these, I deeply miss my friends in Bangladesh. I am still in touch with them, and they remain my closest friends, but distance changes things. Sometimes it feels as though an invisible string between us has loosened. If I were there, close to them, perhaps I could pour out my tangled emotions more freely.

But life takes us in different directions, my son. And along the way, we learn to carry both our longing and our strength together.

January 9

I usually prefer to work from home on Fridays, but today I went to the office to keep myself distracted. After work, I took a slow stroll through the city center and returned home late in the evening, letting the quiet of the streets settle my thoughts.

January 10

The plan was, once again, to be alone. I woke up late in the morning and decided to visit a nearby city. Heidelberg felt like a good choice, especially since there is a direct regional train. But just after I boarded, there was a technical issue and the train was cancelled right at the station. Scheiße, Deutsche Bahn.

So instead, I went downtown. It was very cold today, maybe minus three or four degrees, with strong winds cutting through the streets. Strangely, I enjoyed the harsh weather. It felt like a reflection of my current state of mind.

I did some grocery shopping and then returned home. Cooking often feels very relaxing and stress relieving to me, so I decided to try something different. For the first time, I made Afghani pulao. And of course, it turned out delicious.

January 12

Today was one of those days that tests you as a parent, even before you truly become one.

We had your ultrasound appointment this morning at 11. The gynecologist had warned us to set aside plenty of time for this detailed examination, so I took a break from work to be there with your mama. What I didn't expect was the waiting, over an hour in that quiet room, watching the clock tick closer to my 1 PM meeting. Anxiety crept in, not just about work, but about what we'd see on that screen.

When the doctor finally called us in around 12:30, she apologized. The patient before us had needed extra attention, something serious. How could I be annoyed after hearing that? Someone else's world might have been shifting beneath their feet.

Then it was our turn. For twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five, the doctor moved the ultrasound wand across your mother's belly. There you were again, my little pudding. Twenty-five minutes of watching you, of seeing you move and grow. Everything looked normal, everything seemed fine.

Until the end.

"The heart," she said carefully, "appears slightly smaller than expected."

Time stopped. My own heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears.

She was quick to reassure us. It could be your position, it could be genetic, nothing severely dangerous. She wanted a second opinion from a neonatal specialist, just to be certain. We asked every question we could think of, and she answered each one with confidence and calm. "Nothing to worry about," she kept saying.

But you know what? A father's heart doesn't follow logic.

I rushed back to my 1 PM meeting, but my mind was elsewhere. The moment it ended, I was searching online, reading articles, looking for answers. Everything I found echoed what the doctor said: this happens, it's usually nothing, babies are resilient.

When I got home, I saw the worry etched on your mother's face. She was carrying the same weight I was. I showed her the articles I'd found, hoping they would ease her mind. I'm not sure they did. Some anxieties can't be googled away.

Tonight, we're holding each other a little tighter. And I'm talking to you, little one, even though you can't hear me yet. Keep growing. Keep fighting. We're here, waiting to meet you, ready to give you all the love in the world.

January 13

Your mother left for Halle this morning.

Do you remember me telling you about her December classes? They were cancelled when her teacher fell ill. Now a different professor has taken over, and she needs to be there for the makeup lectures. Two weeks in Halle, two weeks without her here.

I said goodbye to her early this morning. My eyes felt heavy as I watched her go, but I kept reminding myself: it's just two weeks. Just fourteen days.

The apartment feels quieter already. But I know she's doing this for her studies, for our future, for you. And I know that when she comes back, we'll have moved two weeks closer to meeting you, little pudding.

January 15

I'm in Cologne tonight for work, staying overnight for meetings tomorrow. This evening, my colleagues and I went to a wonderful Indonesian restaurant, and somewhere between the satay and nasi goreng, the conversation turned to you.

I found myself talking about fatherhood, about the kind of parent I want to be for you. I shared my thoughts about raising you, the values I hope to pass on, the world I want to show you. My colleagues listened, some shared their own experiences, and it felt good. Really good. To talk about you, to make you real in conversation, to hear myself say "my child" out loud.

January 16

After a full day of back-to-back meetings and work, I finally made it home this evening. The train ride gave me time to think, to decompress, to let the day settle.

But walking through the door, the apartment felt empty without your mother here. It's strange how a space can feel so different when someone you love isn't there to fill it. The silence is heavier. The rooms feel bigger.

January 18

A quiet weekend at home, mostly resting and recharging. I can feel it in my bones: the next few weeks are going to be intense at work. So I'm taking this stillness while I can, preparing myself for what's ahead.

January 20

I went to Uniklinikum Frankfurt today to schedule the appointment with the neonatal specialist. The campus is enormous, almost like a small city. It took me fifteen minutes just to find the right building, weaving through corridors and following signs.

When I finally arrived at the administrative office, it was three minutes past five. The doors were locked. My heart sank for a moment, but then I met a kind nurse who handed me a business card. "Call tomorrow morning," she said. "You can book by phone."

Such a small gesture, but it lifted a weight off my shoulders.

January 21

Called the hospital first thing this morning and got the appointment with the neonatal specialist. One step closer to answers, one step closer to peace of mind.

January 23

This week at work was absolutely chaotic. We started the year as a team of four, but since early January, two colleagues left. Now we're down to two people doing the work of four. You can imagine the pressure, the endless to-do lists, the late nights.

But tonight, I'm just grateful the week is over. And tomorrow, the best part: your mother comes home.

January 24

I woke up early, energized by anticipation. Straight to the kitchen to prepare lunch, finishing dishes I'd partially cooked the night before. The best way to welcome your mother home? A proper meal, made with love.

Her train was supposed to arrive at noon, so I headed to the station to pick her up. Then she called. The train was delayed. When I reached the platform, the announcement confirmed it: over an hour late.

It was bitterly cold that morning, with wind cutting through my jacket. I found a bench on the platform and sat there, staring down the rail tracks, willing the train to appear. Waiting has never been my strength, but for her, I'd wait forever.

And then, finally, there it was. The train pulled in, and there she was.

She looked a bit disheveled from the journey, hair slightly messy, but as sweet as always. The moment she saw me, she couldn't stop giggling. She wrapped her arms around me in the tightest hug, pinched my cheeks playfully, and didn't stop talking the entire way home. Every word, every laugh, every gesture reminded me how much I'd missed her.

At home, we sat down to that lunch I'd prepared. It tasted better than anything I'd eaten all week, not because of the food, but because we were together again.

Two weeks apart felt like a lifetime. But now, our little family of two (soon to be three) is whole again.

January 29

Another brutal week at work. My days have blurred into a relentless rhythm: wake up, commute, work, lunch, more work, commute home, and some nights, even more work before bed. It's exhausting.

My body is starting to protest too. I've developed a dull ache in my lower back from sitting in the same position for hours on end. It's not severe, but it's there, a constant reminder that I need to take better care of myself. Especially now, when I need to be strong for you and your mother.

January 30

We had our appointment with the neonatal specialist today at 9 AM at the Uniklinikum. After all the worry, all the waiting, all the anxiety since that ultrasound on January 12th, today was the day we'd finally get answers.

For once, we didn't have to wait long. The doctor called us in fairly quickly and began an extensive examination that lasted nearly an hour. She was thorough, checking everything carefully, taking her time to ensure nothing was missed.

At one point, she chuckled and made a joke about you. Apparently, you had placed your hand on your chest, as if you were deliberately blocking the view, refusing to let us get a full picture.

And then, at the end of the examination, everything was satisfactory. Alhamdulillah. There was nothing wrong with your heart, not the shape, not the size. The doctor reassured us completely, her confidence finally allowing us to breathe freely again.

I left work early today because tonight, we're going to a concert.

Back in November, I booked tickets to see Hans Zimmer live. I was so excited to share the maestro's music with your mother, to sit together in that darkened hall and let those powerful scores wash over us. But then the concert was cancelled. Hans Zimmer fell ill, and our plans dissolved.

Still, I didn't want to let it go. I found an alternative: a Hans Zimmer cover concert, something called a "candlelight concert." Honestly, I have no idea what to expect. Will it be intimate? Grand? A small ensemble or a full orchestra? But that's part of the adventure, isn't it?

Tonight, we'll discover it together. And maybe, just maybe, you'll hear those sweeping melodies too, little one. Your first concert, before you're even born.

January 31

So, about last night's concert. It was nice, though not quite what I'd hoped for. Four talented musicians playing Hans Zimmer's most popular tracks on strings. The venue itself was stunning: a beautiful church in Frankfurt, with hundreds of candles flickering throughout the space. That's why they call it a candlelight concert, and I have to admit, the ambiance was magical.

But having been to an actual Hans Zimmer live concert before, the cover versions didn't quite capture that same power, that overwhelming emotional force his music carries. Your mother, though? She was enchanted. Her eyes lit up with every piece, and watching her enjoy it made the evening worthwhile. Maybe one day, when you're a bit older, we can all go to a real Hans Zimmer concert together.

Today, the apartment smells incredible. Your mother has been busy in the kitchen all day making pithas, those traditional Bengali rice cakes. Remember the Pitha Utshob we attended earlier this month? Your mother couldn't eat as it was too late.

Our friends in Frankfurt noticed her disappointment and came up with a beautiful solution: we'll have our own Pitha Utshob tomorrow. Everyone is making something at home, and then we'll gather at someone's place to share. It's not just about the food, it's about friendship, about people caring enough to recreate a tradition so your mother doesn't feel left out.

Tomorrow should be wonderful. Good food, good friends, and your mother finally getting to enjoy the pithas she's been craving.