The news came quietly, without celebration or ceremony. The education board's grant had been awarded—to another school. Jamila's father read the letter once, then folded it carefully and placed it on the table. There was disappointment, yes, but no shock. In some ways, they had already learned how to live without that answer.
"We'll manage," Binta said, her voice steady.
And they did.
The school continued, not expanded, but strengthened. A community group offered to partner with the weekend programs. A retired teacher volunteered time. Progress arrived sideways—not as rescue, but as reinforcement.
Fatima returned home briefly before her next placement. She stood taller now, her confidence quieter but deeper. When Jamila hugged her, she felt it—the difference between distance that weakens and distance that grows.
"I used to think home was where I was needed most," Fatima said one evening. "Now I know it's where I'm understood."
Jamila thought about that long after.
At school, she prepared for the next academic year with new confidence. She was no longer the girl who waited to be noticed. She asked questions. She offered ideas. Teachers listened.
One afternoon, as she walked through her father's school compound, Jamila realized something that surprised her.
Home wasn't the house.
It wasn't the school.
It wasn't even the people—though they mattered most.
Home was the space where she was allowed to grow, to fail, to speak, and to become.
And wherever that existed, she would carry it with her.
As the family sat together that night, laughter mixing with uncertainty, Jamila felt ready.
Not because everything was resolved—
But because she knew where she belonged.
And that was enough to face wha
tever came next.