(In the back office of the Chuck E. Cheese that my parents owned, circa ~1994)

Sacrifices

I lost my parents on two separate, heart-wrenching occasions. First, my mother passed away unexpectedly in 2017, followed by my father in 2023 after a long battle with Laryngeal Cancer. Losing a parent is inevitable, but it weighs on me every single day. It feels like waking up and placing a rock in my pocket—a constant, inescapable presence that stays with me no matter how far I run, how much I hide, or how hard I try to forget. That rock remains, a reminder of loss that never leaves.

My story mirrors that of many immigrants. My parents emigrated from Karachi, Pakistan, with the hope of giving their children a better life. They chose Utah as our home, a place far from what they knew. Like many immigrants, they arrived in the United States chasing the promise of education and opportunity, at the expense of leaving behind family, friends, and the comfort of familiarity. They made sacrifices, took unimaginable risks, but remained steadfast in their faith that life would be better for their children.

In 1993, the year I was born, my parents bought a Chuck E. Cheese in Orem, Utah. This became more than a family business—it became the fabric of our lives. Orem at the time was a community rich in homogeneity, dominated by the Latter-day Saints religion. It wasn’t always easy—there were moments of subtle racism—but those were rare. What defined our experience was the overwhelming love and acceptance from the community. My parents brought joy to children every day, and we were embraced by our Mormon neighbors. I grew up playing with their kids, and they supported our family in ways beyond business. We shared a bond rooted in the principles we both held dear: faith, community, and neighborly love.

That Chuck E. Cheese became a cornerstone for us, a place that gave us a sense of identity. It wasn’t just a business; it was where we found our community, our home away from home. As a father now, I only begin to appreciate the daily sacrifices my parents made. Looking back, I see how they raised us with the help of a community that didn’t share our prayers, our cuisine (only two indian restraunts in Utah at the time), or our language, but loved us nonetheless. Our neighbors were there for us in ways that helped my parents manage both business and family. We reciprocated, even closing the restaurant on Sundays out of respect for our community’s values, and refrained from serving alcohol. In many ways, we became an extension of that community, finding common ground where we thought there might be none.

I often wonder how my parents felt during those years—the stress they carried, the weight of their dreams for us. Did they ever think about giving up and going back?

I miss them every day. At times, I wrestle with the grief and anger that they aren’t here to see my children grow. Not because of my own selfish desires, but because I know the immense joy it would have brought them to witness the lives of their grandchildren. Yet, in their absence, I feel closer to them. They live on in my children—in Leila and Bella. I see flashes of my parents in the way my toddlers move and speak, and in those moments, I am transported. I may not have them physically, but our connection deepens as I raise my own family. They live through me, through the universe, and through my twins.

We know life is finite, that one day we will leave this world as we entered it—with no say in the matter. Whether seen through a religious or scientific lens, life and death are inextricably linked, each giving meaning to the other.

What Matters?

In my faith, Islam, seeing the deceased in dreams holds profound significance. It’s a reminder of the afterlife, a connection between the living and the dead, and most importantly, a reminder of our own mortality.

I’ve often been consumed with the need to achieve more, to keep pushing beyond what I’ve already accomplished. Yet, every new success leaves me feeling emptier. I think about my parents’ sacrifices, about providing for my family, but I’m starting to realize that beyond the basics, this pursuit can feel like an endless treadmill.

Recently, I had a dream. I walked into our old Chuck E. Cheese—the one where I grew up, cleaned each toilet, wiped down each toy, and made every pizza with care. Everything felt so real: the broken tiles, the cleaning supplies, the carbonation machine, “Chucky’s House,” the stacked dishes in the kitchen. As I walked through the door, there was my father, holding a mop, looking like he was in his 40s again. He smiled at me with such warmth, and for the first time in a long while, I felt at home again.

Then, I saw my mother, cutting a fresh pizza in her usual hurried way. She glanced at me, smiled, and went back to work. It was like being back in our busiest season—so vivid, so familiar. Perhaps it was a spiritual connection, or perhaps a reminder of life’s brevity, but in that moment, I was home, shielded by their love once more.

I woke up thinking about them. About the sacrifices they made, the love they gave to me, to the community, and to our family. I held my children and took a deep breath, realizing what truly matters in this life.