There are six ways to say “uncle” in Pakistani homes. There’s the standard English word, used to address any South Asian man older than you regardless of actual relation. Your parents’ friends are called “uncles” and “aunties” -- not Mr. or Mrs.

But in the case of truly related kinfolk, there are five different Urdu variations of “uncle” that denote the exact relationship, depending on whether you are referring to a maternal or paternal uncle, through marriage or blood, who is either older or younger than your parent.

It sounds complicated, but I love these specific titles for extended family. It makes each relationship seem special in its own way.

Growing up, I only had one of these uncles nearby. The rest were either in Pakistan, England or another American city.

Lucky for me, my father’s older brother, my Abbas taya, has been a constant presence in my life since I was born. He and my father emigrated within a few years of one another and have always lived in the same city. Our families grew up together. The six children in my family combined with the four in theirs meant we had a team of playmates, confidantes and partners in crime throughout our childhoods.

Abbas taya was the larger-than-life figure that loomed above us.

If every family has a gifted storyteller, Abbas taya is ours. He’s the life of the party, the center of attention in any room, the one making us all laugh with his wicked sense of humor. He’s the one who paved the path of financial success in this country, arriving with little and eventually building a factory that employed dozens. He has flair and a love for the finer things in life -- expensive cars, brand-name clothes, beautiful things and people.

He worked out regularly, and to my young eyes was the strongest and biggest man I knew. He could easily have been an intimidating figure, but that was rarely his way with us. Instead, he charmed us with stories that poked fun at himself more often than others. He defused his frequent teasing with genuine flattery and self-deprecating remarks. He never got sentimental, but his concern and interest in our lives spoke to the unspoken love he has for us.

These were valuable lessons he taught by example: Don’t take life so seriously. Learn to take a joke. Develop a thick skin. Be generous. Dream big. Live big.

He and my father love each other dearly, and also had some epic fights when we were growing up. They share the same quick and volatile temper and sensitivities. Yet they never let any of their personal disagreements spill into any of our family relationships. While my father has always been my intellectual foil, my cheerleader and The Law in our home, my taya has been the one who brings the party, and makes every person he meets believe they are the most talented, interesting and beautiful person he’s ever met.

In the past few years, I watched him struggle with health problems that challenged the way I’ve seen him my entire life. Back problems and neck surgeries seemed to shrink his imposing frame. Some days he can carry on conversations like his old self, but many times, he will ask the same questions multiple times in the same visit. On days when his memory is more clouded, he sits and observes our family gatherings rather than taking center stage, holding court and telling stories.

It’s strange to see him quieter.

He’s 81, which I suppose might sound old to someone who never knew him. But to me, he’s the last person who could have ever gotten old. It took me a while to accept that time can turn the toughest patriarch, the happy-go-lucky success story, into the one who needs care.

I make a point to visit him and my aunt every time I go back home to Houston. As an adult, I can see more clearly the village that helped raise me.

On a recent visit, the brief moments of clarity in our conversation where punctuated with longer pauses of confusion and repetition. As I got up to leave, I walked over to give my taya a hug.

I stopped for a second, kissed his cheek and said, “Thank you for being a second father to me my entire life.”

“What are you talking about?” he said, in the good-natured way he dismisses such comments. He sounded exactly like his old self. Then he kissed my head and said softly, “You’re just like my daughter.”

“I love you.”

This is a Ramadan story about how I ended up crying in an IHOP.

It’s become a tradition in my area for young Muslims to congregate at their nearest 24-hour diner for a carbo-licious meal before the fast begins. This means showing up at the local IHOP around 2 a.m. to finish eating around 3:45 a.m.

This seems like a lot of fun if you are young enough to stay up that late and still have the kind of metabolism to handle this sort of meal. I’m no longer among this demographic. But when my daughter wanted to go with her friends early that Saturday morning, I reluctantly agreed to drive them.

The restaurant was jam-packed with Muslims, mostly teenagers and college students, who seemed oblivious to the time. My eyes were burning, and I was debating whether I could really eat a 1,200 calorie breakfast. (It turns out, I could. Looking at you, spicy poblano omelette.)

I was lucky enough to get my food pretty quickly, having joined a friend who had arrived earlier. But when I headed over to my daughter’s table, I realized their orders had not been taken, and no water had been brought to the table despite nearly an hour wait.

It turns out Cedric, the manager on duty, was the only one serving our entire half of the restaurant. The other waiter had called in. Cedric was running around like a headless chicken. As the clock ticked closer to the end of suhoor time, I was getting more and more anxious about whether the kids would get any food before the fast started.

About 15 minutes to the deadline, the tension was palpable with a roomful of hangry teens. Then the plates started rolling off the order counter -- strawberries and cream, Cinn-a-stack pancakes, hash browns that got doused in hot sauce. Thankfully, everyone got their food and was able to scarf it down in time.

When we were getting up to leave, I realized what an intense situation it is for the waitstaff during these early morning hours of Ramadan, especially if a worker doesn’t make it in. I wondered if the young people knew how important it was to tip the waitstaff well, due to the low base wages in the restaurant industry, and that certain circumstances were beyond the control of the servers. I called Cedric when I got home and thanked him, and said I would come by later with an additional tip.

He said the phone call meant more to him than an extra tip.

I shared my thoughts with a few local Muslim groups about what restaurant staffs deal with during this month. It kicked off a spirited discussion about raising awareness within our community about tipping. Immediately, people said they wanted to contribute toward a small bonus to show our appreciation.

Within 12 hours, people had sent me money via VenMo and Paypal. When I showed up for an iftar at the mosque that evening, women literally shoved cash at me to take for the servers.

After we broke our fast, I drove by the IHOP around 10 p.m. and asked if I could speak to Cedric. He didn’t remember who I was until I reminded him that I had called and was worried about whether he and the staff were tipped appropriately.

Then I handed him two envelopes with nearly $1,000 and said, “This is from the St. Louis Muslim community, to thank you and the waitstaff for feeding us during those 2 a.m. shifts in Ramadan.”

Cedric was stunned. His jaw dropped. His eyes got red and watery. And he said, “Just the phone call was enough. Really, that was enough.”

He said the gift would make a big impression on his staff.

And that, my friends, is how I ended up in tears in the International House of Pancakes.

PSA: Always tip your waitstaff well.

I’ve interviewed countless parents in their worst moments. The anguish of those whose children are abducted is unlike anything I’ve seen as a journalist.

Their eyes reveal the terror of not knowing whether their child is hurt or even alive. This is on top of the oppressive grief I’ve felt around parents who have to bury their children. It’s not knowing that keeps tearing you apart.

Not knowing if your child is being tortured is the worst torture a parent can endure.

That’s precisely why the Trump administration has implemented a new policy of separating parents from their children at the border. This is the message they want to send to desperate people seeking asylum or fleeing to our country: We will take your children. They might end up with human traffickers. You may never see them again. They may end up in a government center or a foster home or “whatever.”

This is what Chief of Staff John Kelly calls a “tough deterrent.”

It’s unspeakably inhumane.

Laura St. John, legal director with The Florence Project in Arizona, told MSNBC host Chris Hayes last week that she has seen a 53-week-old infant in court without a parent. The ACLU’s Lee Gelernt told Hayes of a mother hearing her daughter crying out, “Mommy, Mommy, don’t let them take me away.”

The New York Times reported that from October 2017 to April 2018, 700 children, more than 100 of them younger than 4 years old, had been taken from their parents at the border.

You can only tear children away from their parents if you don’t see these children as truly human.

The Washington Post reports that the consequence of this new “100 percent” prosecution policy for anyone who crosses the border illegally is that children will be separated from their parents as the adults are charged with a crime, even if the adults are seeking asylum and present themselves at official ports of entry. They may have to wait days or longer to find out where their children have been taken.

When you actually talk to parents who have a missing child, you will be haunted by their faces. When I would interview parents marking an anniversary of when their child went missing, I would try to wait until I was back in my car before I broke down crying.

Migrants escaping desperate situations in their home countries do not love their children any less than American parents.

Reports that the Department of Health and Human Services “lost track” of 1,475 unaccompanied migrant children last year are fundamentally misleading. You can lose track of your child in a mall if you get distracted. You don’t “lose track” of that many children at such high risk for human trafficking. That happens through deliberate neglect. Perhaps most of these children are with relatives or adult sponsors looking out for their safety and interests. No one really knows.

Ivanka Trump, who was so moved by images of gassed Syrian children that she personally intervened with her father, needs to speak up now. Pro-lifers who vote singularly on the issue of protecting unborn children need to stand up for these children. Our government is deliberately committing a large-scale human rights violation against the most vulnerable and voiceless.

Republicans and Democrats should set aside partisan differences and simply allow themselves to feel what a parent experiences when their child is taken from them. Allow children to remain with their parents as they go through whatever legal process they face. Traumatized people don’t just go away. Discarded people don’t disappear. We will bear the consequences of policies of cruelty designed to dehumanize and terrorize for generations to come.

Our government wants us to accept horrors done in our name to the most vulnerable and innocent.

But it’s not the victims who lose their humanity when this happens.

We do.