2. 𝑨𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒈𝒆, 𝒚𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒖𝒍𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒆 𝑯𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝑷𝒐𝒕𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒔

Halimah is a name of Arabic origin that means forebearing, gentle, mild-mannered, and generous.

I remember asking Baba why he chose that name. His eyes had softened as he recounted the moment in the hospital room when he first held me. He told me that, from that moment, he knew I would grow up to be a kind, gentle, and generous woman. I felt a lump in my throat, and a few tears welled up in my eyes. To be honest, I have a lot of growing to do before I fully embody those qualities, but In Shaa Allah, it's something to aspire to. Yet, right at this moment, those thoughts vanished as someone decided to irritate me this morning.

"Abu!" I shouted from the kitchen, my gaze lifting from the fridge where I expected to find my secret stash of grapes. Unfortunately, they were nowhere to be seen. Someone had clearly helped themselves, and there was only one culprit in my mind.

"Abubakr!" I screeched again, but there was no response.

That little...

I inhaled deeply, preparing to shout once more when my mother's voice echoed from her room upstairs, cutting me off, "Halimah, if you scream again, I will not be held accountable for my actions."

"But he-"

"GO UP TO HIS ROOM AND LET US SLEEP! IT'S EIGHT AM ON A SATURDAY, FISABILLILAH, HALIMAH SADIYAH!" she yelled back ironically, emphasizing my full name, singling her annoyance.

My mother is not a morning person, and I knew that well. I definitely don't want to face her wrath on a Saturday morning. Our shouting match ended as I reluctantly climbed the stairs to my little brother's room. I barged in and found him, partially covered by his blanket, his unruly curly hair turned away, snoring with a trail of drool escaping from the corner of his mouth. Disgusting.

I picked up a pillow from the messy floor which no doubt fell off his bed during his sleep, I'd witnessed his erratic movements while asleep, and I began to whack him repeatedly.

"Wha-" he said groggily, abruptly woken from his slumber, squinting up at me.

"Did" whack "You" whack "Eat" whack "My" whack "Grapes?" whack.

I hissed my words at him, giving him an intense glare. He was the only one who could be responsible for this, and I was sure of it. My little brother seemed to think that the fridge's contents were there for him to devour at any time. He'd grab whatever he wanted and pretend not to be the culprit when asked.

"No," he replied, sitting up, confusion written across his face. This caught me off guard as I was about to hit him again.

"You didn't?" I asked, my glare softening. How could it not have been him?

"What are you even talking about, H?" he asked. Hmm. Maybe, just maybe, he hadn't taken them this time out of the countless times he had.

I stared at him for a few seconds before letting out a sigh and saying sheepishly, "Someone ate my grapes, and since you've done it before, I thought it was you."

"Well, I didn't," he yawned, getting up, and as he pushed the blanket to the floor, a light thud sounded as something fell from underneath. I quickly bent down to lift the blanket, and I saw him trying to hide the empty container, which should have been full of my juicy grapes, under the blanket again.

"You little thief—" I screeched, before lunging at him and twisting his earlobes repeatedly, making him laugh uncontrollably.

"I'll buy you another one, I swear," he managed to get out between laughter, tears streaming down his face.

"You're acting like you even have a choice. Go to the store today and get me my grapes. I want a larger container for making me miss out on them this morning."

"Okay, okay," he replied, his voice hoarse from laughter.

"Go take a shower; you stink. I almost went into a coma from being so close to you," I said, chuckling, turning to walk away. He attempted to throw a, no doubt, drool-stained pillow at me, but I dodged it and left his jungle of a room.

I walked down the stairs into the kitchen to prepare breakfast for my still-sleepy family. As I opened the fridge, I found the usual ingredients: eggs, milk, butter, chocolate chips, and I could spot a container of flour. Chocolate chip pancakes would do just fine.

The early morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm glow on the counter. I started by cracking a couple of eggs into the mixing bowl. A splash of milk followed, adding creaminess to the mixture. Next, I added a pinch of salt, a dash of sugar and a pat of butter. A few drops of vanilla extract completed the heavenly scent in the air.

I sifted and mixed in the flour, making sure the batter was perfectly smooth. Finally, I poured a generous handful of chocolate chips into the mixture.

Once the batter was ready, I heated a non-stick skillet on the stove. Using a ladle, I carefully poured circles of the chocolate-speckled batter onto the pan. As the pancakes sizzled and bubbled, I knew it was time to flip them when the edges crisped to a golden brown. And with quick motion, I flipped the pancakes.

I continued to create a stack of fluffy, chocolate-infused delights, each one promising a burst of chocolatey goodness. The kitchen filled with the aroma of melted chocolate.

I stacked my plate with pancakes whispered Bismillah and had my first meal of the day.

-

Being a Potter-head for life, I decided to indulge in a Harry Potter marathon after breakfast. I have a deep love for the books with the vivid descriptions and clear emotional depth in the written words. Not to discredit the movies; they're good in their own right, just not as in-depth as the books.

That's exactly where my mother found me – sprawled on my room's carpet, hair put into a haphazard bun, dressed in an oversized shirt paired with comfy sweatpants, and indulging in some cookie dough ice cream while engrossed in "Harry Potter and The Prisoner Of Azkaban." It was a lazy day for me.

"At this age, you're still indulging in these Harold Pott movies," she said disapprovingly as she stood in my doorway.

"Mom, it's Harry Potter, and yes, I am," I replied, my eyes never leaving the screen.

"Khalas, scoot closer and let me oil your hair," she said as I heard her approach from behind.

"Ma," I groaned halfheartedly, pretending to be annoyed , but in reality, I was secretly thrilled. I turned to see her preparing to settle on my bed, with a comb and her homemade hair oil in hand.

My mom takes great pride in taking care of my hair. Since I was a child and my hair seemed to grow endlessly no matter how frequently I had it trimmed, she started the ritual of oiling and massaging my hair twice a month. This tradition stopped for some years but continued when I turned fourteen. She probably knew I would slack off on when I take care of it myself. Her efforts paid off though, as my hair became one of my favorite features – thick, extremely soft, and luscious. It now cascaded almost past my waist. I'd probably have it trimmed soon.

More often than not, I'd drift off to sleep during this ritual. The sensation was incredibly relaxing, like my scalp was being tenderly caressed as she divided my hair and massaged the oil into it. So, I paused "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban" and scooted closer, sitting directly beneath her.

The scent of her warm homemade hair oil filled the room, comforting me. She parted my hair into sections, and with gentle fingers, she started massaging the oil into my scalp. I closed my eyes, allowing the familiar ritual to take me away from the world's cares.

"You're not getting any younger, you know," she remarked lightly. Oh boy.

I spat out a strand of hair that had found it's way into my mouth before responding,

"Okay?" I replied, a touch confused even though I had an inkling of where this was leading to.

"When do you plan on giving me grandchildren, hmm?" If I had a dollar for every time she asked me this, I'd be bill gates by now.

"Not this again," I groaned.

My mother had been persistent about my getting married, though it wasn't on my current plans. At twenty-two, I felt no rush. My plan was to marry before turning thirty, In Shaa Allah, but I hoped someone would show interest before then. But, honestly, I wasn't holding my breath.

It wasn't that men avoided me, but rather, many I met were put off by my mode of dressing and my assertive personality. I couldn't help being opinionated, but I wasn't so dogmatic that I refused to listen to others.

However, if I felt strongly about something, I'd make sure my point was heard. I was also selectively reserved – it took time to warm up to new people. I hardly left my house, so I wasn't exactly accessible.

So yeah , there was no line of men waiting at my door, wanting my hand in marriage.

"I just want to know if you care enough to want me to see my grandchildren before I leave this dunya" She responded dramatically. There it is, ladies and gentlemen, the emotional guilt trip that mothers use to get what they want from their children.

"Why do you always pester me about this? Abu doesn't get the same treatment, and he's the male," I whined.

"Because you're my oldest, and Abu is young and clueless. No girl would want to marry him at this stage, you know that," she explained, pointing out the obvious.

"Okay, that's true," I agreed, laughing and making her laugh too. After a few minutes of silence, hair halfway oiled, she spoke softly, "I can't wait for the day you fall in love and get married, habibi."

"Mom," I groaned in embarrassment, feeling a blush begin to creep from my neck upwards. It's not that we don't all secretly hope for a fairytale love story where our Prince Charming sweeps us off our feet, but it actually happening is another issue. But still, I couldn't help silently hoping it did.

My unwavering faith also rested on the belief that Allah has paired us with our soulmates fifty thousand years before the creation of the world. Somewhere out there, my other half exists, and our paths will eventually cross, In Shaa Allah. Even though marriage wasn't something I envisioned in my immediate future, I hold firm to the belief that Allah's timing is the best timing. In the end, everything unfolds according to His will, and He knows best.

My Rabb knows best. Always.

~

A little bit of insight in halimah's family life❤️. Please comment and voteee.