THE TIMOROUS DUNYA✅

E P I L O G U E

5 years later.

She walks, and the ground feels solid below her, the wind brushes her eye lashes and caresses her cheeks tenderly. The sun felt like a giant ball of hope, gleaming, chanting, it's all okay now.

Her view has turned darker by the shades she wore. She pushed the giant door, paused briefly and scanned the piece of paper in her hands.

List, was crawled in hasty handwriting at the top, followed by everything else below. Bread, chicken, eggs, butter, cabbage, cocoa powder, vanilla essence, persely, yoghurt, cheese, chocolate, sour cream, heavy cream, a large tub of chocolate ice cream, a small tub of vanilla ice cream, popsicles, pringles, dried grapes, baking soda and salad cream.

She walked between isles, scanning the products, mostly for the brand she was used to buying. Roughly five minutes of staying in the queue formed for those purchasing, she skipped out of the supermarket, nylon bags weighing her figure down and marched to her car. All bags tucked into the back seat, she ignited and followed the path back home.

Home. Home was now a nicely built, all black, modern duplex. It sat at the edge of their street, surrounded by the thick, green branches of trees and chirping of birds. It overlooked a beach, which Maryam loved watching though the glass of her neatly furnished living room. Most days, she watched the water swell, and rise high in the air, then rush towards her, as though it was going to swallow her whole into it's huge, wet tummy. But then, it'll retreat, and drop to the ground, hitting the shore with a sound swish.

She stopped by the mailbox, she hums, fisted all the letters she could find there. She skimmed thought them, bills, bills, bills, work, then Maryam. To Maryam, that's all was written on one of them. She separated it from the others.

Stepping in, Maryam discarded the letters on the console by the door, along with her keys, the nylon bags on the counter, in the kitchen. She changed into a patterned shirt and leggings.

In the kitchen, she whipped butter, added sugar, whipped with flour, eggs, milk and a big spoon of cocoa powder. She made salad, scrambled some eggs, baked some brownies, made rice with stew, then bathed, and sat down, waiting.

Then, she remebered the letters, sitting gingerly on the console, glaring at her inside fiery white envelope. She picked them and settled back on the couch, the sea sat still across the window, as thought it was curious to know what the letter entailed too. She observed the envelope again, looking for any detail she might have missed.

Carefully, she ripped it open. No one has ever sent her letters. So this was a first.

Her address, messily scribbled on the left corner, then, It has taken my last penny to write this to you. No 'Dear Maryam' or 'How are you doing'.

Maryam sunk further into the couch and with a deep breath, let her eyes travel between the lines of messy ink.

It has taken my last penny to write this to you. I am desperately in need of help. Everyone I had known has deserted me. Suleiman stole my money and went to kill himself with it, I'll never forgive that useless boy. Zainab ran away, I can't find her anywhere. Your father, he thinks it's my fault. But it isn't. It's not my fault. I was only trying to protect him, to protect our love, our house and our children. Everything I did, getting rid of your mother, of you, it was for his happiness. But no! He wouldn't understand!

I know you get what I mean, child. I know you'll understand me, because you're sweet, and understanding. I am sick, very very sick. My right leg is rotten, it needs to be caught off, but I don't have the money. I have no where to stay. I need your help.