Mama…
Mama changed with time. Or maybe the years just wore her down.
Her patience became threadbare. Her voice louder. Her hand quicker.
She loved us — of course she did. But sometimes that love came folded in fury, like when we skipped zuhr or left our hijabs tangled in the laundry or got caught mimicking the girls on Zee World.
There were days when the only dhikr I did was in fear: "Ya Allah, please don't let her hit too hard today." But despite everything — the slaps, the shouting, the guilt we didn't have words for — I still remember that time in my life with something close to love.
Because we had each other.
Me and my sister.
We sinned together — stole meat from the pot, watched music videos on mute, made fake Instagram accounts behind Mama's back.
We also laughed together — the kind of laughter that feels like wudu after a long day.
And we prayed together too.
In our own broken, stumbling way.
Late at night, under one blanket, whispering du'as that only half-rhymed:
"Ya Allah, help us not go to Jahannam." "Ya Allah, help Mama be less angry." "Ya Allah, make Daddy love us more." We were far from perfect Muslims.
But we were trying.
Trying to be good.
Trying to be loved.
Trying to be whole in a world that often felt cracked in half.
My sister was what I'd call… sharp. Bubbly. Loud in the way that made silence seem like a boring cousin.
She was beautiful.
Very beautiful.
Slim, with delicate wrists and cheekbones that looked like they were carved by someone who took their time. People noticed her. Always. She had that kind of presence — like music playing in the background of every room she entered.
Unlike me.
Fat. And maybe, sometimes, ugly. At least… that's how I felt.
Even though people always — and I mean always — told me I was beautiful.
"Your eyes," they'd say.
"Your smile," they'd point out.
"Mashallah, you're glowing." And maybe I believed them.
For a second.
Maybe.
But then I'd look at her — my sister — the way her jeans clung to her like they were made just for her body, the way her laughter lit up the space around her like fairy lights. And I'd shrink again.
Back into my own skin.
Back into this shell I never asked for but learned to carry.
And the thing is… she loved me.
She never made me feel small. She was the first to call me pretty, to tell me I had "baby doll eyes" and "smooth skin like mango juice." But even love like that couldn't silence the voice in my head — the one that had memorized every insult ever thrown my way, every mirror that turned against me, every time a boy looked through me like I was fog on glass.
And still… I clung to her.
Because in a world that made me feel like too much and not enough at the same time — my sister was my proof that I could be loved.
Even if I wasn't the pretty one.
Before I delve too deep into my sister and me… let me start with Daddy.
Daddy had mental issues. I thought he was mad at one point — like really mad. But it came and went. Some days he was calm, sitting in silence, staring into the walls like they held secrets. Other days… he was loud, talking to himself or getting angry at things none of us could see.
That drained Mummy. I knew it did. I could see it in the way she sighed even when nobody said a word. I could feel it in the way she moved — slow, tired, like her body was begging for rest she never got.
She had three people to look after.
Four, if you count herself.
And really, you should.
Not to mention the duties she still had to her own parents — my grandparents.
I love them. I really do. And my sister loved them too — even though they weren't technically her grandparents.
But you'd never know.
They never treated her differently.
Never said a word.
Never slipped.
Most people think I'm a year older than my sister. And that lie has lasted till this very day.
Maybe because I was a very bright child. Finished primary school at 7. But I had to stay home for a year before starting high school — I was too young. I finally started at 9. My sister, on the other hand, wasn't book-smart, but God… she was street smart.
She could tell when someone was lying just by the way they moved their hands. She always knew who was gossiping before they even opened their mouths. She could haggle with the woman selling tomatoes and still get an extra pepper for free.
Me? I was the shy, quiet one. The one who read books and asked too many questions in class. But her? She lived out loud.
And oh… how I love my family. Broken and messy and stitched together with threadbare prayers — but mine.
Mummy and Daddy were two people living in the same house, but never really together. You could feel it in the way silence stretched between them, in the way they barely looked at each other unless it was necessary. They weren't at war—but they weren't at peace either.
Daddy wasn't always like this. Mummy used to say that he was different before "the pressure" started. I never knew what kind of pressure it was—financial? Spiritual? Mental?
All I knew was that somewhere between getting married and raising two daughters, Daddy started changing.
Some mornings he would wake up like everything was fine—he'd joke, hum, even offer to take us to school. Other days, he'd be lost in himself. Eyes red, mumbling about people trying to poison him, hiding money in strange places, or accusing mummy of stealing his things. Sometimes, he'd leave the house for hours without telling anyone.
No one knew where he went. Not even Mummy. He'd return like nothing happened, expecting dinner.
I think the worst part was that we never knew which version of him we were going to get.
But Mummy… oh, Mummy stayed.
She didn't leave.
She didn't shout.
She didn't tell the neighbours.
She carried everything—quietly. Like the Atlas of our little world. Holding up the sky while cooking rice on the stove and answering work calls with one ear. She worked three jobs, took care of Daddy, took care of us, and still managed to pray five times a day.
She was tired. God, she was tired.
Sometimes I'd catch her crying in the bathroom. Not sobbing. Just tears falling silently, like she didn't even notice them.
But then she'd wipe them, fix her scarf, and come back out with a smile like nothing happened.
I think that's what love looked like for her. Not flowers. Not kisses. Not romance.
Just endurance.
Sacrifice.
Staying.