Jamila had never paid much attention to her father's school beyond its tall gates and faded signboard, but that morning, he asked her to walk with him. The request surprised her. Usually, he left early, long before Jamila was awake, carrying the weight of the school on his shoulders alone.
The compound was quiet when they arrived. A few teachers stood in small groups, speaking in hushed tones. Jamila noticed the chipped paint on the classroom walls and the cracked tiles along the corridor—details she had never seen before. Her father greeted everyone with calm authority, but Jamila sensed the strain beneath his smile.
"This school feeds many families," he said as they walked. "Not just ours."
Jamila nodded, understanding more than she ever had. The school was not only a place of learning; it was a responsibility, one that demanded constant sacrifice. Rising costs, unpaid fees, and expectations from parents all pressed down on her father. Yet he stood firm, believing education was worth the struggle.
Later that afternoon, Jamila joined her mother at the market. Bright fabrics fluttered in the air, their colors bold and alive despite the noise and heat. Binta negotiated confidently with customers, her voice steady, her hands skilled as she folded cloth with care. Jamila helped where she could, learning how each fabric told a story—where it came from, who it was meant for, what it symbolized.
Business was slower than usual. When customers left without buying, Jamila saw the disappointment her mother tried to hide. Still, Binta kept going, adjusting prices, smiling, refusing to let discouragement win.
That evening, the family gathered at home. Fatima joined them through a video call, her tired face lighting up when she saw Jamila. They spoke honestly—about the school, the market, university expenses, and the reality they all shared.
"We are holding different ends of the same rope," Fatima said quietly. "If one of us lets go, everything falls."
Her words stayed with Jamila long after the call ended.
That night, Jamila sat by her window, thinking about foundations and threads—how her father built futures through education, how her mother wove survival through business, and how Fatima carried their hopes forward at university.
For the first time, Jamila didn't feel small in the face of their struggles.
She felt connected. She just hoped everything would work out soon, she's too little to go through this phrase
And in that connection, she found strength enough to believe that even fragile things, when woven together, co
uld endure.