I never had it easy.
From watching my parents succumb to the horrors of a car accident to craving the healing presence of the man I love-my entire life-I had navigated through this messy maze I call my life with a shard of hope in my heart.
Every da...
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Unloading grocery into the trunk from the shopping cart was no easy feat, and had always been one of Wahdan's most disliked chores. If it were up to him, he'd simply lift the cart and dump its contents into the trunk. But today, today Wahdan took his time.
He carefully placed each paper bag into the trunk, made sure the glass bottles and bags were secure before he shut it and slid into the driver's seat. Today, he took a mouthful of the therapy the women in his life marveled in when they worked around the house silently. Just them and their troubled conscience and quietude that answered questions.
The car was hollow, cold and empty. Every weary sigh that escaped his lips pierced through the silence, and Wahdan put his head against the steering wheel in defeat, because he did not know what to do. Where to go, whom to go to. He had questions and questions and questions and no answers.
Mubaraka had insisted on an early wedding. She did not hold back her dislike for a prolonged engagement and had clearly said neither party had any reason to delay the marriage. And so, Wahdan had halfheartedly agreed after discussions with Aaryan and Khalid Uncle. There really was no reason to push the marriage forward and seeing as too much time had already been wasted speculating and guessing and assuming, they'd set the Nikkah date to two weeks from now.
But Wahdan's heart wasn't into it. It wasn't into any of it, and it hardly had anything to do with the fact that his sister was going to move away quite soon, or hoe she'd taken Nausheen into more confidence than him. Every fit he'd thrown had nothing to do with Mubaraka's choices and was only him pestering her.
Wahdan scampered around him for peace, any of it he could get his hands on. But at this point, it was a foreigner. A colossal fabrication, out of reach.
He had always taken pride in how is prayer mat was his relief; he escaped route. When his mind would be spiraling into confusion and his existence would suddenly seem purposeless, he'd retreat to this one piece of cloth that rejuvenated him once again-gave him purpose and put the worry in his heart and soul to rest. The more he'd sit, the more a solace would seep into him and run through his veins until he'd sigh with the belief that his matters were now left upto Allah.
But these days, all he wanted to do was snatch control.
Do anything he could, anything at all to protect his family and their wellbeing. Scavenge for any bits and pieces he could collect and take this matter under him. Perhaps he just needed to be reminded that Allah is Al-Wakil and that by taking things into his own hands, he could do more damage than good.
