For the sake of my son

In the upper room overlooking the garden space, the only one on the roof was a repair and restoration movement in full swing. Then she renewed the nearby bathroom. From its northern window, charming scenes appeared to the eye. Mountain, trees, observatory road and railway line.
When the night falls, angelic spirits whisper close to her. My father saw her alone. He sees her with his heart and mind, calls her with his tongue, and extends to her two palms that look as small as children's palms in comparison to the strength with which he calls for help from my father.
My father was desperate to repent. My mother was happy about that, even though he continued to quarrel with her because she was the one who prevented him from drinking alcohol. He was as angry as a thief on the moon because he wanted darkness. He believed in action and reaction, so he began preparing tools for repentance, just as he would assemble toys for a child so that he would not cry in the absence of his mother.
In a wooden cupboard in the upper room, he placed flowers, Sufism books, a rug, and a rosary. He began to frequent the shrines, listen to sermons, and ask about the difference between Sunnah and Duty. He looked sick, weak, and poor, and my mother told me that he was crying alone.