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Dr. Nazeer sank deep into thoughts of his late wife Hajara—the mother of Khairat. In the depths of his heart, he felt pity for himself and for his daughter, who had been deprived of a mother’s love since childhood. From all his reflection and searching, he could not think of any woman fit to care for his daughter and be entrusted with her future—except Zainab. He admired her upbringing, her calmness, and her deep Islamic knowledge.
As he shifted on the bed, suddenly, as though in a dream, tears of pure love for Zainab streamed down his face without warning. He lifted his soft hand in wonder, touching the tears in disbelief. Never in his life had he fallen so helplessly in love—not even with Hajara. Truly, he had loved his wife, but the flame of affection burning in his soul for Zainab had taken over his existence.
He did not bother wiping the tears. A short while later, his mother entered, carrying a tray of food. But Nazeer, lost in his ocean of thoughts, had not even noticed her arrival. She quietly placed the tray before him, then her eyes caught the tears glistening in his eyes. Her heart clenched in pity.
Startled, she cried out, “Nazeer! Are you alright? What has happened to you that you are in tears?”
Her voice jolted him back to reality. Trying to hide his distress, he said, “Momy… when did you come in? I didn’t notice.”
“How could you notice, when you were lost in thought?”
He gave a heavy sigh. “It wasn’t thoughts, Momy. I must have dozed off.”
His mother frowned. “Don’t lie to me, Nazeer. What kind of thoughts make a man weep as though he has lost his parents?”
“There is nothing wrong with me, Momy. Honestly, I didn’t even realize tears were running down my face.”
She looked displeased, almost angry. “Since you won’t tell me what troubles you, here is your food. Eat, because I must be going.”
She rose to leave, but Nazeer quickly caught her hand, his face pleading. “Forgive me, Momy. Please don’t go.”
“Let go of my hand, Nazeer! If I stay, what do you expect me to do for you—when you hide things even from your own mother? What use is my presence then?”
“I will tell you my problem, Momy. Please, sit down again.”
Out of love for her son, she returned to her seat. She served him food and commanded gently, “Eat first, then we’ll talk.”
With great respect, Nazeer obeyed. He ate quietly until he had finished half the plate, then drank cold water that cooled his throat. He sighed deeply and said softly, “I am full.”
His mother adjusted her sitting posture, her face glowing with motherly affection. “Now, my son, speak. Tell me the reason for your tears. Because unless you confide in me, I will never have peace.”
Nazeer stared at her for a long time, while inside him, fire and anguish consumed his chest. At last, with a pained smile, he said, “Momy, all this grief you see in me… it is because of Zainab. Love for her has consumed me. I love her more than words can describe. Losing her again would be like losing all the joy in my life. She doesn’t realize how much I need her—that without her, I cannot go on living.”
His tears flowed again as he confessed, “If love was something I could command, I would have erased this burning passion from my heart long ago. But Momy, I can’t. I love Zainab—more than I ever loved Hajara. Please, help me make her my wife. I swear, I could die for her.”
His words pierced his mother’s soul. She grasped his hands tightly, her own eyes wet, and wiped his tears tenderly. “Stop crying, my son. By the will of Allah, Zainab has no husband other than you. I promise, as long as I live, I will see to it that you marry her. You are my joy, and I will not let sorrow consume you. It was destiny that made you marry Hajara first. But now, by Allah’s will, Zainab will be yours.”
She took a deep breath, then asked carefully, “But my son, let me ask you this—did you confess your love to Zainab and she rejected you again? Or is it that you are silently torturing yourself without ever approaching her?”
“I told her my feelings, Momy. But you know… she has not yet healed from her illness. And she still suffers the pain of losing her parents years ago.”
His mother covered her mouth in shock. “What exactly did her former husband do to her that left her in such a state?”
“I don’t know, Momy. But my heart tells me he wronged her deeply. Her sister’s husband, Hayatu, promised to tell me the full story of her suffering in Lawal’s house.”
“May Allah ease her pain and grant her health,” she prayed softly.
“Amin, Momy.”
“But what illness does she suffer from, my son?” she pressed.
Her question struck him like thunder. His chest tightened, but he forced composure. “She suffers from a cold sickness,” he said quietly.
His mother’s eyes widened in shock, her heart trembling with fear. She suppressed her worry and whispered, “May Allah heal her and protect her.”
Nazeer was surprised at her beautiful prayer for Zainab, and a smile of relief touched his lips. “Amin, Momy.”
Rising to her feet, she straightened her wrapper and gave him a loving smile. “My son, I am going to my room. Leave this matter in Allah’s hands, for He knows what is best for you. And keep praying—He alone grants what is good.”
Nazeer nodded, “Insha’Allah, Momy.”
After she left, he went to his small chest and drew out an envelope containing Zainab’s photographs. Returning to his seat, he spread them out, gazing at her face. Joy and calmness flooded his body, coursing through his veins like fire and water together. Finally, exhausted, he lay back on his bed, clutching the photographs tightly to his chest as he drifted into thoughts of her.
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Meanwhile, in another house, Aunty Maijiddah sat on the bed, speaking to her husband with quiet intensity. Her heart was weighed down by a burning desire for justice—for all those who had played a role in her parents’ death to be punished. Whenever she remembered the tragedy, her spirit filled with sorrow and anguish.
“Khalbi,” she said firmly, “have you still not uncovered those behind my parents’ deaths? My heart will never rest until I know the truth…”
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