Where my heart lands

Each week, I leave the noise of Dhaka behind. I step into an airport that smells of jet fuel and haste, but for me, this is not just a terminal—it is the starting point of something sacred. I travel alone, not for luxury, not for work, but for love. For family. For something the city can’t give me: home.

For the past two and a half years, I have boarded a flight from Dhaka to Jessore and back again. Every single week. What seems like an unusual ritual to others is simply my way of surviving. I live in Dhaka for my studies, chasing a future I’ve dreamed of. But my soul—it lives in Jessore, where my parents and grandmother wait with eyes full of longing and hearts full of love.

Some of my friends joke with me, saying, “You’re so posh! Who flies home every weekend?” They laugh, but they don’t know. They don’t hear my father’s voice on the phone asking quietly, “Tui ashbi to, ma?” They don’t see my mother’s eyes scan my face the moment I step in, as if checking whether I’ve eaten properly, slept enough, stayed healthy. They don’t see my grandmother—my sweet Nanumoni—walking slowly toward me, smile trembling, as she reaches into her drawer to hand me a small note.

“Nanumoni, buy something… whatever you like.” she says, placing the folded money into my hand. Her fingers are thin, fragile like pressed flowers, but the love they carry could move mountains. I never argue with her. I simply nod and tuck it away, pretending I’ll spend it later. I never do. Those notes are treasures, soaked in the scent of her love.

My father—he has always been my silent shield. I’ve never needed to explain my heart to him. He understands it before I speak. When I was younger, and even now, if I want something—no matter how small or silly—he’ll make it happen. Even when my mother says, “No, not now,” he simply smiles at me and says gently, “Let her have it. If she’s happy, that’s enough.” That’s who he is—my quiet supporter, always watching, always there.

And my mother—strong, kind, and always thoughtful. She doesn’t say much, but her care is woven into everything she does. The moment I enter the house, she takes my bag and says, “Go freshen up, I’ve made your favorite.” She doesn’t wait for compliments or thanks. She just wants me to feel safe, nourished, loved. She’s the steady rhythm of our home, the voice that grounds us all.

During each flight, I sit by the window. The clouds blur below me, but my mind is clearer than ever. I’m between two worlds—the one I’m trying to build and the one that built me. It’s in that suspended silence that I feel it the most: the ache of distance, the quiet joy of returning, and the heartbreak of always having to leave again.

One evening, on a return flight, I saw an old woman traveling alone. She reminded me so much of my grandmother—small, fragile, uncertain. Her bag was too heavy, and her hands shook as she tried to lift it. No one moved. I stepped forward, lifted it for her, and walked her to her seat. She looked up at me, teary-eyed, and whispered, “May your daughter do the same for you one day.” That moment cracked something open in me. I thought of my own Nanumoni, waiting at home with love tucked into her palm.

Leaving Jessore each time is the hardest. I say goodbye with a steady face, but my heart feels like it’s unraveling. My father stands near the gate, pretending to check his phone, but I know he’s watching until I disappear from view. My mother squeezes my hand one last time, whispering, “Call me when you land. And don’t skip meals, okay?” And my grandmother, always the last to let go, touches my cheek and says, “Next time, stay longer, shona.”

That moment—those few seconds before I turn and walk away—is the one I carry with me throughout the week. In the classroom. In crowded buses. In libraries. It’s the anchor that keeps me going, the reason I push forward. Because no matter how far I travel, I know exactly where my heart lives.

I’m often asked, “Isn’t it tiring? Every week? Isn’t it too much?”
And I always smile and say, “No. It’s love.”

This story isn’t about airplanes or airports. It’s about presence. It’s about showing up, even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it costs time, money, energy. Because when you truly love someone, you don’t wait for special occasions. You go. You show up. You come home.
So I fly.

Every week, I fold my clothes, pack my bag, and chase the sunset back to Jessore. I sit beside my parents and listen to them talk about their days. I rest my head in my grandmother’s lap and let her fingers trace my hair. And when the weekend ends, I carry their love back with me like an invisible shawl wrapped around my shoulders.

One day, I may not be able to do this. Life might change. Situations might shift. But until then, I will continue to fly toward the people who raised me, who love me without condition, who make every goodbye feel like a promise to return.

Because no matter how many cities I live in or skies I cross, my story begins and ends in Jessore—with the people who wait, love, and believe in me.
And that, to me, is everything.

Shohana Afsana Promi: Student, BRAC University