A means to an End

Chapter Three: Homecoming Reflection

As I pulled into the driveway of my family's home, a list of thoughts and concerns swirled in my mind. I paused for a moment, attempting to collect my emotions and clear my head of distractions. My family possessed an uncanny knack for noticing even the slightest shifts in my demeanor, and my feelings often manifested plainly on my face.

"Bismillah," I whispered, seeking strength, before opening the door to make my way to the front porch.
With a deep breath, I rang the doorbell and instantly heard my father's voice echoing from what I assumed was his study, "It's open." I turned the doorknob and stepped inside, finding my father precisely where I had expected him to be—behind his desk, engrossed in his work.

"You know it's dangerous to leave the front door open," I began with a hint of concern. "There are killers out in these streets."

My father, always one to blend humor with seriousness, responded, "I wish one of those young bouls would dare step foot in here. I may not be a killer, but don't push me." His playful tone masked the very real seriousness behind his words.

"But don't worry, I've got one of those smart locks on the door and a Ring light. I can see who's at the door before opening it from my phone."

"Ah, I see," I acknowledged, relief washing over me. "That does make me feel better. Where is everyone?"

"Your mother is in the kitchen, your brothers are at the masjid for a class, and your sisters are in their rooms working on homework." he replied.

I took off my jilbab as I made my way through the house toward the kitchen.

"Assalaam Alaikum, Ummi," I greeted my mother warmly.

"Wa Alaikum Salaam, sugar." She walked over to me and enveloped me in a tight hug. "Come in here and help me stir this mac and cheese."

"Yes, ma'am," I chuckled, glancing around the familiar kitchen. It was no surprise to find everything in impeccable order—my mom was the only woman I knew who could keep a kitchen spotless while simultaneously preparing a full-course meal. "Clean while you cook" had always been her motto. As I poured freshly boiled macaroni noodles into a Pyrex dish, my mother suddenly broached the topic of my marital prospects.

"Have any new suitors?" she inquired casually. I hesitated, a lump forming in my throat.

"Umm... no," I admitted quietly. "There was this one brother I met at Eid. I gave him Dad's number a couple of weeks ago."

My mother continued to prepare the cheese sauce she had lovingly crafted from scratch and handed it to me to be poured over the noodles.

"Your dad hasn't received any calls," she remarked, her tone tinged with concern. "He's beginning to worry."I paused my mixing and turned to face her.

"Worried? But he was supposed to be the one finding me a match."

How ironic, I thought to myself.

"Amiyah!" I was suddenly interrupted by my two younger sisters, Aasiyah and Ruqaiyah, running toward me.

"Assalaam Alaikum," they greeted me in unison.

"Walaikum Salaam!" I replied with a warm smile. "Dad mentioned you two were upstairs working on your homework." A quick exchange of glances between my sisters followed by a bout of giggles clued me in.

My sisters, now in their junior year of high school, were at an age where such exchanges often hinted at something more. Despite their intelligence and the solid values instilled in them, my role as their big sister left me perpetually concerned about their exposure to the world, even though they attended one of the finest Islamic schools in the city.

I raised an eyebrow, giving them a knowing look. "We finished our homework a couple of hours ago," Aasiyah admitted.

"Yeah, we were actually watching an Islamic lecture," Ruqaiyah added.

"Oh, really? What was the lecture about?" I asked, placing my hands on my hips. Something told me they were up to no good.

"A lecture on marital rights and responsibilities," my mother interjected nonchalantly.

I looked at them skeptically. "How did you know that's what we were watching?" Aasiyah stammered nervously,

"You think y'all do anything in this house without me knowing? Think again." My mother wore a smirk as she continued, "Now, set the table. Maghreb is coming soon, and then we will have dinner."

"Yes, ma'am," my sisters replied in unison.

Being raised by my mother, a woman who had found immense joy and fulfillment in her role as a wife and mother, served as inspiration for all of us to aspire to the same. She never seemed displeased with her role; there was always a smile on her face. When I had reached the age to ask her questions about marriage and why she seemed so content, her answer had always been consistent. "Allah blessed me with a wonderful husband, so how could I not be grateful and show my appreciation by serving my family with the best attitude? Now, don't get me wrong," she would continue, "every day isn't perfect. But with Tawakkul, keeping your heart and mind focused on Allah, engaging in activities you enjoy, and maintaining patience, communication, and honesty, you can navigate the journey of marriage successfully."

As the Adhan echoed through the house, my father announced that he was heading to the masjid and would return with my brothers, Hakeem and Raheem. About an hour later, they arrived home. We all greeted each other and sat down to enjoy the delightful meal my mother had prepared: honey-glazed lamb chops, garlic butter mashed potatoes, sautéed green beans, and the mouthwatering mac and cheese. As my mother took her seat, her eyes scanned the dishes before her and the smiles on our faces. That moment, her joy and the love that enveloped us, was what I hoped to find in my own future.