I wake at fajr afraid my children will drift

I make coffee in the small kitchen at fajr and listen to them in the next room, arguing over a cartoon in English. Their backpacks are by the door with bright stickers, a bus timetable folded inside. I play a voice note from my mother in Sarajevo and try to teach two lines of a lullaby between spoonfuls of jam, but their tongues reach for please and thanks first. I lie awake thinking they will lose the Bosnian words, the little prayers I grew up with, the way we used to pray together. I make dua and still feel helpless. Has anyone else carried this fear? How did you hold it without losing yourself?