Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

Faith-rooted serialized stories, historical fiction, essays, and overlooked Muslim experiences in America.

Featured series include:

• After Wards • The Story of San Juan Hill • The Libraries That Raised Me • Bronzeville • Hijrah House Essays

New entries added weekly.

Stories rooted in memory, literacy, faith, migration, reentry, and the quiet realities shaping overlooked communities.

By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

Discovering the Muslim River Civilizations of West Africa

Modern readers often picture great civilizations growing beside roads.

We imagine highways filled with cars, freight trains crossing vast landscapes, or aircraft connecting distant cities. Transportation has become so closely associated with roads that it can be difficult to imagine a civilization built around anything else.

Yet for much of human history, roads were often little more than narrow footpaths.

The true highways were rivers.

In medieval West Africa, no waterways were more important than the Senegal and Niger Rivers. Flowing for thousands of miles across forests, grasslands, and the great Sahel, these rivers connected communities separated by enormous distances. Long before railroads, paved highways, or modern bridges, they carried people, ideas, faith, and commerce throughout the region.

For the civilizations that flourished along their banks, the river was not an obstacle to overcome.

It was the easiest way to travel.

A merchant preparing for a trading journey rarely loaded his goods onto camel or oxen. Instead, he looked toward the nearest landing where boats waited beside the shore. Fishermen left before sunrise as they had for generations. Families crossed the river to visit relatives or attend markets. Students traveled to study under respected scholars. Imams journeyed from one community to another, teaching Qur’an, leading prayer, and settling disputes. Pilgrims heading toward larger caravan routes often began their journeys on the water before ever setting foot in the desert.

Every sunrise brought movement.

Some boats carried baskets overflowing with fish caught only hours earlier. Others transported rice, millet, salt, leather goods, pottery, woven cloth, or carved wood destined for markets farther downstream. Traders returning home might carry manuscripts copied by hand, medicines prepared by local medicinal scholars, or gifts purchased hundreds of miles away.

The rivers were alive with purpose.

This system did not develop overnight.

For centuries, communities learned how to navigate changing currents, seasonal floods, hidden sandbars, and shifting channels. Boatbuilders refined designs suited to local conditions, crafting sturdy vessels from native hardwoods that could safely carry both passengers and cargo. Entire professions emerged around the water. Some families specialized in fishing, others in transportation, others in repairing boats or guiding travelers safely through difficult stretches of river.

As Islam spread throughout West Africa between the eighth and sixteenth centuries, these waterways became more than commercial routes.

They became pathways for knowledge.

Scholars traveled from town to town carrying books instead of merchandise. Young students left home seeking teachers whose reputations had spread throughout the region. Handwritten copies of the Qur’an, works of jurisprudence, Arabic grammar, mathematics, astronomy, and poetry moved along the same rivers that carried grain and livestock.

Knowledge flowed with the current.

Cities such as Timbuktu, Djenné, Gao, and countless smaller river settlements did not become centers of Islamic learning in isolation. Their scholars remained connected through constant travel and communication. A respected teacher might spend years studying in one town before accepting students hundreds of miles away. Merchants often served as messengers, carrying letters between scholars alongside their commercial goods. In this way, the river linked not only marketplaces but classrooms.

Faith also shaped daily life along these waterways.

Masajid stood within many riverside communities, their calls to prayer echoing across the water. Travelers planned their journeys around the five daily prayers. Business paused as merchants joined one another in worship. Hospitality toward strangers was encouraged as an act of faith, making many river communities welcoming places for visitors arriving from distant lands.

Commerce and worship were not viewed as separate parts of life.

For many Muslim merchants, conducting honest business was itself an act of obedience to Allaah. Fair weights, truthful speech, and trustworthy dealings strengthened both reputations and relationships between communities. As a result, the rivers became places where economic prosperity and religious values often reinforced one another.

The surrounding landscape also played an important role.

Each year the Niger River flooded portions of its floodplain, depositing rich soil that supported farming communities for generations. Farmers harvested crops nourished by the river while fishermen depended upon its abundant waters. Herdsmen brought livestock to drink along its banks. Together these occupations created a balanced economy in which villages often relied upon one another’s skills and resources.

The river sustained them all.

This is one of history’s most important lessons.

When many people think of transportation in medieval Africa, their minds immediately picture camel caravans crossing the Sahara. Those caravans were indeed remarkable, connecting West Africa with North Africa and the wider Islamic world. But they represented only one part of a much larger transportation network.

Before a merchant ever reached the desert, there was often another journey first.

A journey by river.

Understanding this changes how we picture African history.

Instead of isolated villages separated by wilderness, we begin to see connected civilizations communicating across hundreds of miles. Instead of imagining knowledge remaining in one place, we recognize scholars constantly traveling in search of teachers and students. Instead of viewing rivers as barriers, we understand that they functioned much like today’s interstate highways, carrying the people who built some of Africa’s most remarkable Muslim civilizations.

This understanding also helps explain the world that inspired Captain Mu’awiya and the River of Secrets.

Although the novel tells a fictional story, its setting was shaped by the reality of these great waterways. The bustling river traffic, the close relationship between commerce and scholarship, and the importance of boats to everyday life all reflect historical patterns found throughout West Africa.

But every highway has its masters.

Who built the boats?

Who knew every bend in the river?

Who spent their lives reading the currents with the same confidence that others read maps?

To answer those questions, we must meet the remarkable river communities whose lives were inseparable from the water itself.

By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

An Introduction to the Real African Muslim Civilizations Behind Captain Mu’awiya and the River of Secrets

When readers open a work of historical fiction, one question naturally follows close behind the first page: How much of this really happened? It is a fair question. Historical fiction occupies a unique place between scholarship and storytelling, inviting authors to imagine conversations, characters, and adventures while remaining rooted in the realities of another time and place.

Captain Mu’awiya and the River of Secrets was born from that tradition.

The story itself is fictional. Captain Mu’awiya, his crew, and the mysteries they encounter exist only within the pages of the novel. Yet the world they inhabit was inspired by real African Muslim civilizations whose achievements deserve to be remembered not as footnotes in history, but as chapters in humanity’s shared story.

For many readers, the history of Islam in Africa begins and ends with a few familiar names, perhaps Timbuktu, Mansa Musa, or the trans-Saharan caravan routes. While each of these occupies an important place in history, they represent only a small part of a much larger picture. Africa’s Muslim heritage stretches across thousands of miles, encompassing bustling river ports, inland kingdoms, coastal cities, mountain communities, and thriving centers of learning that developed over many centuries.

The geography itself shaped these civilizations. In West Africa, the Niger and Senegal Rivers became the great highways of their age. Long before paved roads or railways, merchants, scholars, fishermen, and families depended upon the rivers to travel between villages and cities. Boats carried sacks of grain alongside handwritten Qur’ans. Students journeyed in search of knowledge while traders exchanged goods that linked distant communities. Along the riverbanks, Masajid stood within walking distance of busy markets, and entire generations learned to read, worship, trade, and build their lives around the rhythm of the water.

Thousands of miles away, another remarkable story was unfolding. Along Africa’s eastern coastline, Muslim sailors developed one of the world’s great maritime traditions. From ports such as Kilwa, Mombasa, Lamu, and Zanzibar, elegant wooden dhows crossed the Indian Ocean using the seasonal monsoon winds and the stars overhead as their guides. Their voyages connected East Africa with Arabia, Persia, India, and Southeast Asia, carrying not only goods but also languages, ideas, scientific knowledge, and religious scholarship. These sailors belonged to a civilization every bit as sophisticated as the river societies of the west, even though they navigated an entirely different world.

At first glance, these two regions appear to have little in common. One depended upon winding rivers that cut through forests and savannas. The other looked outward toward an immense ocean. Their boats were different. Their architecture reflected different climates. Their trade networks followed different routes.

Yet beneath those differences lay a common thread.

Both were shaped by Islam.

Masajid called believers to prayer. Children memorized the Qur’an. Scholars traveled to teach and to learn. Merchants conducted business with an understanding that honesty was an act of worship. Pilgrims dreamed of reaching Makkah, while knowledge flowed alongside commerce from one community to another. Geography gave each civilization its own character, but faith provided a shared foundation that united them across a vast continent.

It is within that broader understanding of history that Captain Mu’awiya and the River of Secrets finds its inspiration.

The novel does not attempt to recreate one kingdom with perfect historical precision, nor does it claim that every custom, vessel, or location belonged to a single place. Instead, it draws thoughtfully from multiple African Muslim traditions to create a fictional world that encourages curiosity about the real civilizations behind the adventure. Readers familiar with West Africa may recognize echoes of the Niger River cultures. Others may notice the influence of the Swahili Coast in Captain Mu’awiya’s distinctive dhow. Neither appears by accident. Each serves as a tribute to the remarkable diversity of Muslim Africa.

Historical fiction has always served two purposes. It entertains while inviting readers to explore the past for themselves. A well-told story often becomes the first step toward deeper learning, encouraging someone to ask, Did people really live this way? Were there truly Muslim sailors crossing the Indian Ocean? Did great centers of learning flourish along African rivers? When those questions arise, fiction has accomplished something valuable. It has opened the door to history.

The articles that follow are designed to continue that journey. Together they explore the river cultures of West Africa, the people who mastered the Niger River, the scholars who traveled its waters, the maritime traditions of the Swahili Coast, and the creative decisions that shaped the world of Captain Mu’awiya. Some chapters examine civilizations that inspired the setting. Others explain why certain artistic choices were made. All share a common purpose: to celebrate the extraordinary legacy of African Muslim civilizations with both historical care and genuine appreciation.

The adventures of Captain Mu’awiya may be imagined.

The civilizations that inspired them are real.

Their stories deserve to be told.

And this is where that journey begins.

Chapter 9 - The River People

Step into a world where rivers are roads, villages rise on stilts, and every current carries a story.

In Chapter 9: The River People, young Mu’awiya and his crew encounter a remarkable community shaped by water, tradition, and resilience. Along the way, they discover that some of life’s greatest lessons come from people whose way of living is unlike anything they’ve ever known.

If you enjoy immersive storytelling, meaningful adventure, and Muslim characters growing in courage, wisdom, and responsibility, this chapter is for you.

🎧 Listen now:

Chapter 9 on YouTube⁠

https://youtu.be/pKTXQ_1LLtk?si=69fPLI9EFVmydfLH

📚 Begin the complete journey:

Captain Mu'awiya and the River of Secrets on Amazon⁠

https://a.co/d/06OhaLyk

Perfect for:

* YA Muslim readers (ages 13–18)

* Families listening together

* Anyone who enjoys adventure with depth, faith, and purpose

Start the journey.

Follow the river.

Discover the secrets.

Abdul-Baasit

By: Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

“So when did I arrive?”

Abdul-Baasit leaned forward.

“After all that trouble your brother caused.”

Abdul-Wahhab immediately objected.

“I see this story is becoming increasingly unfair.”

“You were difficult.”

“I was an infant.”

“You started early.”

Rabiyyah laughed softly.

The apartment warmed with the familiar rhythm of family conversation.

Outside, San Juan Hill settled beneath another autumn night. The sounds of automobiles drifted through the streets below while a faint breeze rattled the windowpane.

For a moment, Rabiyyah could almost hear Idris laughing with them.

Then London returned.

The years after Abdul-Wahhab’s birth passed more quickly than Rabiyyah expected.

Perhaps that was the nature of children.

Days felt long.

Years disappeared.

The small London flat gradually changed shape around the needs of a growing boy.

Books migrated upward onto higher shelves.

Sharp objects mysteriously vanished from low tables.

Entire conversations became interrupted by tiny footsteps.

And somehow the household became happier because of it.

Abdul-Wahhab possessed curiosity from the beginning.

Everything required investigation.

Everything required touching.

Everything required questioning.

The world existed as one enormous mystery waiting to be examined.

Several books suffered during this period.

Idris considered this unfortunate.

Rabiyyah considered it inevitable.

One afternoon she discovered the boy sitting beside a stack of papers belonging to Idris.

The papers were covered in translation notes written in Arabic, English, and French.

Abdul-Wahhab had added his own contributions.

None were useful.

Most involved circles.

One involved a camel.

Another appeared to be a ship.

Idris studied the damage carefully.

Then nodded.

“He has improved the margins.”

Rabiyyah laughed so hard she nearly dropped the tea kettle.

Family life settled comfortably around them.

Discussion circles continued.

Community gatherings continued.

Friendships deepened.

The years of loneliness that once defined Rabiyyah’s life seemed increasingly distant.

Not forgotten.

Simply transformed into memory.

Then, three years later, another surprise arrived.

This time Rabiyyah recognized the signs immediately.

Experience removed uncertainty.

It did not remove concern.

She was older now.

The first pregnancy had been difficult.

Neither she nor Idris assumed the second would be easier.

When she informed him, Idris remained silent once again.

Rabiyyah immediately recognized the expression.

“You are doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Staring.”

“I am thinking.”

“You stared exactly the same way with Abdul-Wahhab.”

“That was also thinking.”

Yet beneath the humor lived gratitude.

Deep gratitude.

The kind people feel when receiving blessings they never expected to receive twice.

The second pregnancy proved difficult as well.

Not identical.

Different.

Its own challenges.

Its own worries.

Its own trials and tests.

Several times Rabiyyah found herself remembering Yusuf Ali.

Remembering Trinidad.

Remembering Brooklyn.

Remembering how impossible this future would have seemed to the younger woman standing beside New York Harbor years earlier.

One evening she sat quietly after Maghrib while Abdul-Wahhab slept nearby.

The boy had finally exhausted himself after a day devoted entirely to exploration and destruction.

Mostly destruction.

Idris glanced toward the sleeping child.

Then toward Rabiyyah.

Then smiled.

“Our house has become noisy.”

Rabiyyah smiled.

“Alhamdulillaah.”

The labor arrived in the summer of 1915.

Once again the hours proved long.

Once again the women of the community gathered.

Once again du’aa’s filled the home.

And once again Allaah brought them safely through.

Another son.

This time the joy carried a different texture.

The first child had felt miraculous.

The second felt like completion.

A household becoming a family.

A blessing joining another blessing.

Abdul-Wahhab studied his younger brother with tremendous seriousness.

The adults waited nervously.

No one could determine whether he approved.

Finally he nodded.

“He is very small.”

This observation satisfied him completely.

The discussion of names began again.

Suggestions appeared immediately.

Everyone possessed opinions.

Everyone possessed recommendations.

Everyone possessed certainty.

Yet one name settled naturally into their hearts.

Abdul-Baasit.

Servant of The Expander.

Servant of The One Who Enlarges.

The One Who Opens.

The One Who Broadens.

Because that was exactly what had happened.

Their lives had expanded.

Their family had expanded.

Their home had expanded.

Their future had expanded.

After years of loss, Allaah had broadened their world in ways they never imagined possible.

Years later, sitting in San Juan Hill, Rabiyyah looked toward her younger son.

The boy who had once fit inside a single blanket.

The boy who now sat across from her as a grown man.

The boy whose arrival completed a chapter of her life she once believed impossible.

“You were named Abdul-Baasit,” she said softly, “because Allaah expanded our lives after narrowing them for so many years.”

The room grew quiet.

Neither son spoke immediately.

Outside, the sounds of Manhattan drifted upward through the night.

Inside, three lives sat together beneath the weight of memory.

By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

Every generation celebrates its great speakers.

The voices that command a room, inspire a crowd, or leave an audience hanging on every word are easy to recognize. Their influence is immediate. We remember the speech, the acknowledgment/applause, the emotion, and often the moment itself.

Writers, however, leave a different kind of legacy.

Their audience is often invisible. They sit alone with a notebook, a keyboard, or a stack of books, wrestling with ideas that may not reach another human being until months, or even centuries later. Their conversations happen across time rather than across a stage.

Modern psychology suggests something worth considering: public speaking and writing are both learned skills. Some people possess exceptional natural aptitude, what many would simply call a gift, but mastery still requires practice. Personality influences which medium often feels more natural, not which medium a person is capable of mastering.

That distinction matters.

For generations we’ve tended to divide people into neat categories: the outgoing speaker and the quiet writer, the extrovert and the introvert. Reality is more nuanced. While many reflective personalities naturally gravitate toward writing, where ideas have room to mature in solitude, others are energized by human interaction and discover their greatest strength standing before an audience. Neither path is inherently superior. They simply cultivate different ways of communicating truth.

Writing invites patience. Every sentence can be questioned, rewritten, refined, and strengthened before another person ever reads it. The writer has the luxury of thinking before speaking. Public speaking, on the other hand, rewards presence. It asks a person to read the room, adjust in real time, and transform ideas into living conversations. Great speakers often learn to think while speaking.

The remarkable truth is that both paths require discipline. The gifted writer who never revises remains average. The naturally charismatic speaker who never studies eventually runs out of substance. Talent may open the door, but practice determines how far someone walks through it.

Islamic history offers one of the clearest demonstrations of this balance.

When Muslims think about preserving knowledge, names like Imam al-Bukhari and Imam al-Nawawi immediately come to mind. Their books continue teaching millions of people centuries after their passing. The quiet labor of collecting narrations, verifying chains of transmission, organizing chapters, and carefully selecting every word became an enduring form of da’wah. Their pens continue speaking long after their voices have fallen silent.

Yet Islamic civilization also produced remarkable orators whose greatest contributions were delivered face to face. Hasan al-Basri became renowned for sermons that softened hearts, awakened consciences, and reminded people of their relationship with Allaah. His words moved audiences not simply because of eloquence, but because sincerity gave weight to every sentence.

Then there are figures like Ali ibn Abi Talib, whose legacy reminds us that the divide between writer and speaker is often artificial. He is remembered for eloquent speeches, timeless wisdom, profound letters, and concise sayings that continue to be studied today. His example demonstrates that preserving ideas and proclaiming them publicly are not opposing callings. They are complementary ones.

Perhaps this is why the very first revelation to the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ began not with public speaking, but with knowledge itself.

“Read…”

Soon afterward, Allaah praised the one “Who taught by the pen.” Elsewhere, Allaah swears by the Pen itself, elevating writing as one of the great instruments through which knowledge is preserved. Yet the Qur’an was also recited aloud, memorized, taught, discussed, and preached. Islam never forced a choice between the tongue and the pen. It honored both.

That should challenge the way we think about communication today.

Social media often rewards whoever speaks the loudest, while books quietly shape generations in the background. Viral videos can inspire millions overnight, yet many of history’s greatest transformations began with someone sitting alone, carefully choosing one sentence after another.

Neither should envy the other.

The speaker may ignite a movement, but without writers its ideas are often forgotten. The writer may preserve timeless wisdom, but without teachers and speakers many people would never encounter those pages in the first place.

Perhaps the healthiest goal is not to ask whether we are writers or speakers, but to recognize which gift Allaah has made more natural for us while continuing to develop the other. The reflective writer can learn to share ideas confidently. The gifted speaker can learn to slow down long enough to preserve those ideas for future generations.

After all, every civilization needs both.

One preserves the library.

The other fills the lecture hall.

One builds the archive.

The other awakens the heart.

Together, they ensure that truth is not only remembered but also lived.

In the end, the lesson is surprisingly simple. Writers preserve ideas. Speakers ignite them. The greatest communicators understand the value of both and spend a lifetime learning when to pick up the pen and when to stand behind the podium.

Part Four: A House Full of Barakah

By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

A package arrived the following week.

Sa’eed carried the long cardboard box through the front door with the same care he had once reserved for expensive displays arriving at his grocery store. Maryam looked up from the dining room table, where she was preparing lesson plans for the following week, and smiled the moment she saw the familiar expression on his face.

“It came.”

He nodded.

“It came.”

“You look happier than the delivery driver.”

“He doesn’t know what’s inside.”

Maryam laughed as Sa’eed carefully laid the box across the dining room table. Taking his pocketknife from his pocket, he slowly cut through the packing tape before folding back the cardboard flaps.

Layer after layer of protective paper gave way until bright colors finally appeared.

Across the top, cheerful lettering read,

Ramadan Kareem

Beneath it, in elegant script that stretched nearly the entire width of the sign, were the words,

Fasting Between Meals

For several seconds, neither of them spoke.

Then Maryam began laughing all over again.

“I still can’t believe they said that.”

Sa’eed shook his head.

“I hope I never stop believing it.”

He picked up the sign and admired it from different angles.

“My old sign maker did beautiful work.”

“He always did.”

“He called after I left.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to know the story.”

Maryam smiled.

“Did you tell him?”

“I tried.”

“And?”

“I couldn’t get through it without laughing.”

She laughed again.

“Neither could I.”

The following Monday morning, before the first families arrived, Sa’eed carried a small stepladder into the foyer.

Maryam stood below with a cup of coffee in one hand and the sign in the other.

“A little higher.”

He adjusted it.

“Now a little to the left.”

He sighed dramatically.

“I knew you were going to say that.”

She smiled.

“I’ve been married to you long enough to know exactly how straight you think something is.”

“And?”

“I also know when you’re wrong.”

He moved the sign another inch.

“There.”

She studied it carefully.

“Perfect.”

He climbed down and stepped beside her.

“It looks exactly the same.”

She smiled innocently.

“It probably does.”

“You just wanted me to climb the ladder twice.”

“I might have.”

He laughed.

“I married a difficult woman.”

“No.”

She slipped her hand into his for just a moment.

“You married a teacher.”

The sign quickly became part of the daycare.

Every child asked about it.

Every parent smiled after hearing the story.

Soon parents began repeating the joke to one another in the parking lot.

One father laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee.

Another mother admitted her own son had once proudly announced that he was fasting between breakfast and lunch.

The story spread farther than either of them expected.

Not because it was profound.

Because it was honest.

Children learn faith one small step at a time.

Adults sometimes forget that.

By the following Ramadan, parents began asking before the month even arrived.

“Mr. Sa’eed…”

“When are you putting the sign up?”

He smiled.

“The first day.”

“It wouldn’t feel like Ramadan without it.”

He hadn’t expected something so simple to become a tradition.

But somehow… it had.

The daycare settled into its own beautiful rhythm.

Every morning began with little shoes lined neatly along the hallway.

Tiny backpacks filled the cubbies.

The smell of crayons mixed with pancakes and fresh coffee.

Children learned to share.

To apologize.

To make du’a before eating.

To say Alhamdulillaah after sneezing.

Some learned their first Arabic letters.

Others learned their first surahs.

All of them learned that this house was a place where they were safe.

Years earlier, Sa’eed had measured his days by delivery trucks and inventory sheets.

Now he measured them by smiles, scraped knees, forgotten lunchboxes, and children who proudly announced whenever they remembered to say Bismillaah without being reminded.

He found that he liked this way much better.

One afternoon, after the last child had gone home, Maryam found Sa’eed sitting alone in one of the tiny classroom chairs.

She smiled.

“That chair can’t possibly be comfortable.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then why are you sitting there?”

He looked around the quiet classroom.

“I was thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“So I’ve been told.”

She pulled another tiny chair beside him.

They looked ridiculous sitting there together.

Their knees nearly touched the little tables.

Maryam laughed.

“We’re too big for these chairs.”

“Alhamdulillaah.”

She looked around the room.

“So…”

“What are you thinking about?”

Sa’eed was quiet for several moments.

Finally he said,

“Do you remember what you told me the night you first mentioned the daycare?”

She smiled immediately.

“I told you I missed building something with you.”

“You did.”

He nodded slowly.

“I thought we were building a business.”

She waited.

“I was wrong.”

She turned toward him.

“What were we building?”

He smiled gently.

“I think Allaah was rebuilding our rhythm.”

Maryam felt tears gathering before she realized why.

He continued quietly.

“Somewhere along the years…”

“…our routines became our marriage.”

She nodded.

“They had to.”

“We were raising children.”

“Working.”

“Paying bills.”

“Helping parents.”

“Planning weddings.”

“We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“No.”

He smiled.

“We were just busy.”

She reached over and took his hand.

“And now?”

He looked around the classroom.

“I think He gave us something that required both of us again.”

She smiled.

“I’ve noticed something.”

“What?”

“You ask my opinion again.”

He laughed softly.

“I do.”

“You really listen.”

“I always listened.”

“You heard me.”

She squeezed his hand.

“Now you listen.”

He smiled.

“I’ve noticed something too.”

“What?”

“You still dream.”

She laughed.

“I never stopped.”

“I know.”

“I just stopped noticing.”

The room grew quiet.

Not the empty silence that had once settled over their retirement.

This was a peaceful silence.

A contented one.

Outside, the late afternoon sun stretched across the front lawn.

Tomorrow morning, the hallway would once again fill with tiny shoes.

Lunchboxes would fill the shelves.

Children would race toward story time.

Someone would forget where they left a sock.

Someone else would proudly recite a new du’a.

Life would continue.

Exactly as Allaah intended.

Sa’eed looked toward the foyer where the colorful sign still welcomed every family who entered.

Ramadan Kareem

Fasting Between Meals

He smiled.

“You know…”

“What?”

“I thought we were opening a daycare.”

Maryam rested her head gently against his shoulder.

“So did I.”

He looked toward the classrooms.

“I think Allaah had something even better in mind.”

She looked at him.

“What was that?”

He kissed her forehead gently.

“Another chance…”

“…to keep falling in love with my best friend.”

Maryam smiled through tears.

“And another chance…”

“…to admire the man I married all over again.”

Outside, children laughed as parents loaded them into waiting cars.

Inside, the house stood ready for another day.

It was no longer quiet.

It was no longer simply a home.

It had become a place where faith was planted, laughter echoed, and little hearts learned to love Allaah.

And for Sa’eed and Maryam, it had become the place where they discovered that after nearly forty years of marriage, love had never left them.

Step aboard the Trade Winds Books Universe, where faith, adventure, history, family, and imagination come together. Discover inspiring stories for every age and begin your next unforgettable journey with us today.

Part Three: Fasting Between Meals

By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

By the time the county license arrived in the mail, the dining room table had disappeared beneath celebration instead of paperwork.

Sa’eed held the certificate in both hands as though it were something fragile. After months of planning, revising, praying, waiting, and answering questions from inspectors, it was finally official.

Maryam smiled from across the table.

“You’ve read that paper at least six times.”

“I paid enough application fees for it,” he replied. “I intend to get my money’s worth.”

She laughed.

“You sound like a grocery store owner.”

“I was one.”

“You still are.”

He smiled.

“I suppose once a merchant…”

“…always a merchant,” she finished.

They looked at one another and laughed.

It was becoming easier now.

Not the work.

The laughter.

The following Saturday, they invited their children, grandchildren, and several close friends from the masjid to see what had become of the house.

The former guest bedroom had become a quiet nap room with soft lighting and neatly arranged cots. The family room now held low bookshelves filled with Islamic children’s books, puzzles, wooden toys, and baskets labeled in cheerful colors. Tiny tables stood where large furniture had once been, while a reading corner rested beneath the front window.

Maryam watched as one of her granddaughters immediately settled into a child-sized chair and opened a picture book.

“I think she’s already claimed her favorite spot,” she whispered.

Sa’eed nodded.

“I noticed.”

Later that afternoon, one of the brothers from the masjid slowly walked through every room before stopping beside Sa’eed.

“I have to admit…”

“What?”

“I expected this to feel like someone turned a house into a daycare.”

“And?”

The brother smiled warmly.

“It feels like someone turned a daycare into a home.”

Sa’eed quietly looked around the room. Tiny chairs. Little books. Colorful rugs. The walls were already beginning to feel lived in.

He hadn’t realized how much that compliment would mean.

When the first Monday arrived, neither of them slept particularly well the night before.

By six-thirty that morning, they were both fully awake and on standby to begin the day.

Maryam checked the attendance sheets for what felt like the tenth time.

Sa’eed walked through each room making certain every cabinet latch was secure. He tested the smoke detectors, straightened tiny chairs, counted crayons, checked the first-aid kit twice, and quietly adjusted a bookshelf that wasn’t actually crooked.

“You know they’re coming to learn,” Maryam teased.

“They’re not conducting an inspection.”

“I know.”

“I just want everything ready.”

She smiled.

“I know.”

At precisely seven o’clock, the doorbell rang.

Sa’eed looked toward Maryam.

“I’ll get it.”

She nodded.

The first little girl stepped inside holding tightly to her mother’s hand. She couldn’t have been more than three years old, and her tiny backpack looked almost as large as she was.

“As-salaamu ‘alaykum,” Sa’eed said warmly.

The little girl hid behind her mother’s abaya.

Her mother smiled apologetically.

“She’s a little shy.”

Sa’eed knelt until they were eye level.

“So was my youngest daughter.”

The little girl slowly peeked around her mother’s side.

“My name is Sa’eed.”

Silence.

Then…

“My name is Hafsah.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Hafsah.”

She glanced toward the classroom behind him.

“Do you have books?”

Sa’eed smiled.

“We certainly do.”

Within fifteen minutes the house was alive.

Children laughed.

Parents exchanged final hugs.

Tiny shoes lined the hallway shoe rack.

Backpacks filled the cubbies.

Someone had already misplaced a sock.

Another child proudly announced that dinosaurs had definitely lived on Nuh’s Ark.

Maryam smiled.

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe the baby dinosaurs.”

She laughed.

“We’ll talk about that later.”

By the end of the first week, routines had already begun to form.

Sa’eed greeted every family at the front door.

Maryam welcomed nervous children into the classroom.

One little boy insisted on telling Sa’eed the weather every single morning before removing his coat.

Another little girl proudly brought him a drawing every Friday.

One four-year-old asked the same question every afternoon.

“Are you coming back tomorrow?”

“Insha’Allaah.”

“Good.”

It wasn’t long before the children stopped calling him “Mr. Sa’eed.”

Most simply called him…

“Grandpa Sa’eed.”

He pretended to object every time.

“I’m not everybody’s grandpa.”

The children disagreed.

Ramadan arrived only a few weeks later.

Construction paper moons and stars decorated the walls. Colorful lanterns hung from the ceiling, and little crescent moons made from glitter-covered cardboard swayed gently whenever the front door opened.

Maryam taught simple lessons about the blessed month.

Not fasting.

Not yet.

Instead, she spoke about gratitude, kindness, sharing, helping others, and remembering Allaah throughout the day.

The younger children were far too young to fast.

But they were not too young to begin loving Ramadan.

Every morning, Sa’eed greeted families at the front door, accepting lunch boxes and carefully placing them on the shelf with each child’s name neatly written across the front.

One little girl looked up at him curiously.

“Mr. Sa’eed?”

“Yes?”

“My daddy says you’re fasting.”

“I am.”

She thought about that for a moment.

“So is my mommy.”

“Alhamdulillaah.”

She smiled proudly.

“I’m fasting too.”

Before Sa’eed could answer, another child chimed in.

“So am I!”

“And me!”

“I’m fasting!”

Within seconds nearly every child in the classroom proudly announced the same thing.

“We’re fasting!”

Sa’eed smiled.

“Mashaa’Allaah.”

He glanced toward Maryam, who was trying very hard not to laugh from across the room.

He wasn’t entirely convinced they all meant the same thing.

But he suspected he was about to find out.

He found out sooner than he expected.

About an hour later, while the children finished an art project, one little boy looked up from his paper.

“Grandpa Sa’eed?”

“Yes?”

“I thought you said you were fasting.”

“I am.”

The little boy looked puzzled.

“But you’re walking around.”

Sa’eed smiled.

“Yes.”

“I thought when people fasted they got tired.”

A few children nodded in agreement.

Maryam smiled quietly while helping another child glue a paper lantern together.

“Alhamdulillaah,” Sa’eed replied. “Allaah gives us strength.”

The children seemed satisfied.

For the moment.

Soon it was time for the morning snack.

Sa’eed walked to the shelves where each child’s snack bag waited neatly labeled. One by one he handed them out, opened stubborn juice boxes, peeled oranges, and helped little hands that weren’t quite strong enough to open packages by themselves.

The room quickly filled with cheerful conversation and the happy sounds of children enjoying their snacks.

As everyone finished eating, Sa’eed gathered empty wrappers and carried them to the trash.

The same little boy watched him carefully.

“I thought you said you were fasting.”

“I am.”

“But you’re touching our snacks.”

Sa’eed chuckled.

“I’m not eating them.”

“I’m just cleaning up.”

The little boy considered that carefully.

“Oh.”

He seemed satisfied.

For now.

The rest of the morning passed peacefully.

The children practiced Arabic letters.

They listened to a story about Prophet Nuh عليه السلام.

One little girl proudly recited Bismillaahir-Rahmaanir-Raheem without any help.

Another child confidently announced that every giraffe on the Ark must have bumped its head.

Maryam smiled.

“I don’t think so.”

“They’re very tall.”

“They probably learned to duck.”

The classroom erupted in giggles.

Before long it was lunchtime.

Sa’eed carefully removed each lunchbox from the shelf and began placing them around the tables.

“You remembered my blue one,” one little girl said happily.

“I promised I would.”

“You did.”

Another child raised his hand.

“I have strawberries today.”

“I heard.”

“My mommy packed extra.”

“That was very kind of her.”

As Sa’eed poured milk into tiny cups, another little voice interrupted him.

“I thought you were fasting.”

“I am.”

The little girl frowned.

“Then why are you giving us lunch?”

“Because you’re supposed to eat lunch.”

Several children nodded confidently.

“We are.”

Sa’eed folded his arms and smiled.

“I thought all of you told me you were fasting.”

“We are!”

Every child answered together.

He looked around the room.

“So…”

He smiled.

“None of you are going to eat?”

The room suddenly became very quiet.

One little boy immediately wrapped both arms around his lunchbox.

“My mommy packed chicken nuggets.”

“I have pizza!”

“I have macaroni!”

“My daddy made my sandwich!”

“I have grapes!”

Sa’eed tried very hard to keep a straight face.

“I thought everyone here was fasting.”

“We are.”

One little girl answered so confidently that it almost made him doubt himself.

He looked around the room again before asking as seriously as he could,

“If you’re fasting…”

“…why is everyone so excited about lunch?”

Tiny faces turned toward one another.

The room fell silent as every child searched for the obvious answer.

Finally, the smallest child at the table smiled proudly.

“We’re fasting…”

He paused.

“…between meals.”

The room remained perfectly still.

Then another little boy nodded enthusiastically.

“Yeah!”

“We don’t eat between breakfast and snack.”

“Then we don’t eat between snack and lunch.”

“And after lunch…”

“…we don’t eat until afternoon snack.”

One little girl smiled proudly.

“We’re very good at fasting.”

For one long moment, Sa’eed simply stared at them.

Then something inside him gave way.

He burst into laughter.

Not a polite chuckle.

Not the quiet laugh he usually reserved for amusing conversations.

A deep, joyful, uncontrollable laugh that echoed through the entire house.

He laughed until tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

He laughed so hard he had to steady himself against one of the tiny tables.

The children stared at him in complete confusion.

Had they said something funny?

Maryam hurried into the classroom from the toddler room.

“Sa’eed?”

She looked from him to the children.

“What happened?”

He tried to answer.

“They’re…”

Another wave of laughter interrupted him.

“They’re fasting…”

He pointed toward the children.

“…between meals.”

Maryam looked at the children.

The children looked back proudly.

One little girl nodded.

“That’s how you fast.”

Maryam covered her mouth.

She managed to hold back her laughter for only a few seconds before she began laughing too.

Soon both of them were laughing together.

The children still didn’t understand why.

But laughter has a way of spreading.

Within moments, the children were laughing too simply because their teachers were.

The joyful sound rolled down the hallway, through the reading room, into the nap room, and out toward the front porch.

It filled every corner of the house.

A house that, only months earlier, had seemed far too quiet.

A house where Sa’eed and Maryam had once wondered what Allaah wanted them to do with the years He had given them.

Now…

it echoed with the laughter of children.

Abdul-Wahhab

By: Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

“So I was the difficult one.”

Abdul-Wahhab said it as a statement rather than a question.

His younger brother immediately laughed.

“I have always suspected it.”

“You were not there.”

“I have eyes.”

Rabiyyah shook her head.

Even after all these years, the two of them could still sound like boys whenever they sat together long enough.

Outside, San Juan Hill settled into another autumn evening. A distant automobile rolled through the wet streets below while the apartment glowed softly beneath the warm light of lamps.

Abdul-Baasit pointed toward his brother.

“So what exactly did he do?”

Rabiyyah smiled.

“Before he was born?”

“Yes.”

“Everything.”

Marriage brought peace into Rabiyyah’s life.

Not excitement.

Not drama.

Peace.

For the first time since Trinidad, she no longer felt as though life might change completely every few years.

The years in Brooklyn had been years of survival.

London became something different.

A home.

A community.

A future.

She and Idris settled into a routine built upon faith, books, discussion circles, shared meals, and quiet companionship.

The kind of life that rarely attracted attention.

The kind of life many people prayed for.

Neither of them expected children.

Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say they hoped without allowing themselves to expect.

Both had lived long enough to understand that hopes and guarantees were not the same thing.

Years passed.

Life continued.

Then one spring morning Rabiyyah noticed something different.

At first she told no one.

Not because she wished to hide it.

Because she scarcely trusted herself to believe it.

Days became weeks.

Weeks became certainty.

And suddenly the possibility she had quietly set aside years earlier stood before her again.

Motherhood.

When she finally told Idris, he remained silent.

Completely silent.

Long enough that she wondered if perhaps he had misunderstood.

Then he sat down.

Placed both hands over his face.

And laughed.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Simply with the relief of a man receiving news he never expected to hear.

The women of the community celebrated immediately.

Advice arrived from every direction.

Some useful.

Some contradictory.

Some impossible to follow.

Meals began appearing unexpectedly.

Visitors checked on her regularly.

Several older women appointed themselves unofficial guardians of the pregnancy.

No one asked permission.

They simply assumed responsibility.

The first months proved difficult.

Fatigue and nauseating sickness settled over her constantly.

Ordinary tasks became exhausting.

Simple errands required planning.

Several times she attempted to continue her usual routine only to discover her body had already made other decisions.

The women noticed immediately.

So did Idris.

One afternoon she found him carrying home nearly twice the amount of groceries he normally purchased.

“You know I can still walk to the market.”

“I know.”

“You know I can still carry things.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you carrying everything?”

Idris looked at her calmly.

“Because I would prefer to.”

That ended the conversation.

The months passed slowly.

More slowly than either expected.

The physicians advised rest.

The older women advised patience.

The community advised du’aa.

Everyone seemed to possess recommendations.

Only Allaah possessed certainty.

So they waited.

As the pregnancy advanced, the difficulties increased.

Some mornings she woke exhausted.

Some evenings she could barely eat.

Several times she frightened herself imagining every possible outcome.

Years of hardship had taught her caution.

Joy always felt fragile.

Especially when it mattered.

One evening she sat quietly after Maghrib while rain tapped softly against the windows.

Fear had settled heavily upon her heart.

Idris noticed immediately.

He usually did.

Without speaking, he placed Yusuf Ali’s Qur’an beside her.

The same Qur’an that had crossed the Atlantic from Trinidad.

The same Qur’an that had passed through Ellis Island.

The same Qur’an her father had recited beside Brooklyn windows during winter evenings.

Rabiyyah rested her hand upon the cover.

And suddenly felt less alone.

The labor began during a gray London morning.

Rain drifted steadily outside.

The city moved through its ordinary business completely unaware that inside one modest home an entire world was changing.

Hours passed.

Then more hours.

The labor proved long.

Painful.

Exhausting.

Far more difficult than Rabiyyah expected.

Several times she believed she lacked the strength to continue.

Several times the women around her insisted otherwise.

By late afternoon the house had become quiet.

Waiting.

Listening.

Praying.

Then the child cried.

A strong cry.

Loud enough to erase every fear that had filled the previous months.

The room immediately changed.

Relief appeared first.

Then gratitude.

Then joy.

A son.

When Idris finally held him, his expression seemed almost impossible for Rabiyyah to describe later.

Wonder.

That was perhaps the closest word.

Wonder mixed with gratitude.

Wonder mixed with disbelief.

Wonder mixed with responsibility.

The child slept peacefully in his father’s arms while the adults stared at him as though he had arrived carrying answers to questions they had forgotten how to ask.

The discussion of names lasted several days.

Suggestions arrived from every direction.

Friends offered names.

Shayookh offered names.

Community elders offered names.

Everyone possessed an opinion.

Yet one name continued returning to Rabiyyah’s heart.

Abdul-Wahhab.

Servant of The Bestower.

Because that was exactly what the child felt like.

A gift bestowed after years of uncertainty.

After years of loss.

After years of believing certain doors might never open again.

When she finally mentioned the name, Idris nodded immediately.

“Yes,” he said softly.

“That is the one.”

Back in San Juan Hill, Abdul-Baasit looked toward his brother.

“So you nearly exhausted everybody before you were even born.”

Abdul-Wahhab sighed.

“I regret asking.”

“You should.”

Rabiyyah laughed.

Then her smile softened.

She looked toward the empty chair beside the window.

Toward the place where Idris once sat reading newspapers and books while a small boy played at his feet.

For a moment the years seemed very close.

Then she looked back toward her sons.

“You were not simply our first child,” she said quietly.

“You were the first proof that hardship is not the end of a story.”

Part Two: Building Something Together

By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

Sa’eed looked at Maryam for several long moments.

Neither of them spoke.

The laughter of neighborhood children drifted across the street while bicycles rattled along the sidewalk. Somewhere nearby a lawn mower hummed steadily beneath the warm evening sky. The ordinary sounds of the neighborhood continued as they always had, yet somehow her question had made the entire world seem to pause.

“What would you think… about filling this house with children again?”

Finally, Sa’eed smiled.

“You mean our grandchildren?”

Maryam smiled back.

“No.”

He tilted his head.

“You want us to foster?”

She shook her head gently.

“No.”

He leaned farther back in his porch chair.

“Then you’ve completely lost me.”

Maryam laughed.

“I’ve been thinking about opening an Islamic Daycare Center.”

Sa’eed blinked.

“A daycare?”

She nodded.

“In our home.”

He slowly turned toward the front window, imagining the quiet rooms inside. He pictured tiny shoes lining the hallway once again, colorful backpacks hanging from hooks, crayons scattered across tables, children’s laughter drifting from room to room, and juice boxes sitting where newspapers and books now rested.

Then he looked back at Maryam.

“I know that look.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“What look?”

“The one that usually changes our lives.”

Maryam smiled.

“It has before.”

He chuckled.

“It convinced me to buy our first house.”

“You needed convincing.”

“I did.”

“But you were right.”

She smiled warmly.

“And?”

He looked around the peaceful porch.

“It turned out to be one of the best decisions we ever made.”

Maryam folded her hands around her tea.

“I think this could be another one.”

Sa’eed didn’t dismiss the idea.

Instead, he asked the question that had guided him through thirty years of business ownership.

“Why?”

Maryam appreciated the simplicity of the question.

After nearly forty years together, she understood her husband well enough to know the difference.

He wasn’t asking why because he disagreed.

He was asking because he wanted to understand.

“Three young mothers have asked me during the past month if I knew anyone providing Islamic childcare.”

Sa’eed listened quietly.

“Last week Sister Aisha told me she’s driving nearly an hour every morning.”

“And yesterday Sister Fatimah said she was considering leaving her job because she couldn’t find anyone she trusted.”

She paused before continuing.

“I keep hearing the same story.”

“No one wants to leave their children just anywhere.”

“They want a place where Bismillaah is said before meals.”

“Where little ones hear the adhan.”

“Where someone reminds them to say Alhamdulillaah.”

“Where Islamic manners are part of everyday life.”

Sa’eed nodded slowly.

“I hadn’t realized the need was that great.”

“I don’t think most people do.”

The porch grew quiet again.

After a moment Sa’eed smiled.

“You’ve been thinking about this for a while.”

Maryam smiled back.

“A little.”

He laughed.

“When you say ‘a little,’ that usually means you’ve already planned the next six months.”

She laughed with him.

“I may have done some research.”

“Some?”

She stood.

“Stay right here.”

A few moments later she returned carrying a thick blue folder.

She placed it gently on the small porch table between them.

Sa’eed stared at it.

“You’ve got to be kidding… I told you… You’ve already started.”

She opened the folder.

Inside were neatly organized pages separated by tabs.

Community Needs.

Licensing.

Insurance.

Business Plans.

Floor Layouts.

County Regulations.

Educational Philosophy.

Projected Expenses.

Projected Income.

Emergency Savings.

Sa’eed looked at her over the top of the folder.

“Maryam…”

“When exactly did all of this happen?”

She smiled almost shyly.

“While you were reorganizing the spice cabinet, the garage, the laundry room...”

He laughed so hard he nearly spilled his tea.

“I spent retirement making bigger labels.”

“You spent retirement planning a business.”

Maryam shrugged.

“I guess we each stayed busy.”

For the next hour they never left the porch.

Together they read every page.

Maryam explained how she had spoken with former colleagues from the school district, researched state licensing requirements, and attended an informational meeting hosted by the county for prospective childcare providers.

“You went to a meeting?”

“I wanted to know whether the idea was realistic before mentioning it.”

Sa’eed slowly shook his head in admiration.

“I forgot how thorough you are.”

She smiled.

“You used to say that.”

“I was right then too.”

The following morning, after Fajr, Maryam carried the blue folder to the dining room table.

Sa’eed walked in a few minutes later carrying his laptop, a calculator, a legal pad, and two sharpened pencils.

Maryam smiled.

“I thought we were retired.”

“We are.”

“Then what’s all this?”

He set everything neatly on the table.

“I’m retired.”

He smiled.

“I’m just not retired from helping my wife.”

It was such a simple statement.

Yet it warmed Maryam more than he realized.

The dining room slowly changed over the following weeks.

The centerpiece disappeared.

In its place came stacks of paperwork.

Highlighters.

County applications.

Graph paper.

Building sketches.

Business books.

Financial projections.

Every afternoon, after Dhuhr, they sat together for several hours working through another piece of the puzzle.

Some days were encouraging.

Other days were exhausting.

One Tuesday they spent nearly three hours studying state childcare regulations.

“I had no idea there were this many rules,” Sa’eed admitted.

“There should be.”

Maryam smiled.

“Parents are entrusting us with their children.”

“They deserve excellence.”

He nodded thoughtfully.

“They deserve more than excellence.”

She looked up.

“They deserve trust.”

Sa’eed quietly wrote the word Trust across the top of his notebook.

Neither mentioned it again.

Yet it quietly became the foundation beneath every decision they made.

Another afternoon they visited the county zoning office.

The clerk politely explained the approval process, parking requirements, occupancy limits, and neighborhood notifications.

Driving home, Sa’eed glanced toward Maryam.

“You weren’t nervous at all.”

She laughed.

“I was terrified.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“I’ve spent thirty-five years standing in front of classrooms.”

“I’ve learned to look calm.”

He smiled.

“You’ve always been brave.”

She looked out the passenger window.

“I don’t feel brave.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You’ve always done the right thing anyway.”

The words stayed with her long after they arrived home.

A week later they met with an insurance representative.

The meeting lasted almost two hours.

As they walked back to the car, Maryam looked at her husband.

“I forgot how patient you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“You asked questions I never would have thought to ask.”

He smiled.

“Thirty years of running a grocery store.”

She shook her head.

“No.”

“You’ve always protected the people you love.”

“I saw that long before you owned the store.”

Sa’eed didn’t know how to answer.

Instead, he reached across the center console and gently squeezed her hand before starting the car.

The gesture lasted only a moment.

But neither of them pulled away too quickly.

Weeks passed.

The business plan slowly came together.

Every revision made it stronger.

Every obstacle forced another conversation.

Every conversation reminded them why they had trusted one another enough to begin a life together nearly forty years earlier.

One evening, after reviewing projected expenses for what felt like the hundredth time, Maryam leaned back in her chair.

“You know something?”

“What?”

“I’ve enjoyed every bit of this.”

Sa’eed looked surprised.

“Even the paperwork?”

She laughed.

“Especially the paperwork.”

“Really?”

She smiled.

“It isn’t the paperwork.”

“What is it?”

She looked across the table at the man she had shared almost four decades with.

“We’re building something together again.”

Sa’eed looked around the dining room.

The table had disappeared beneath notebooks, folders, calculators, and neatly stacked applications.

For anyone else it would have looked like work.

To him… it looked like purpose.

He smiled.

“I think…”

“What?”

“I think I forgot how much I enjoy being on the same team.”

Maryam reached across the table and gently rested her hand over his.

“We never stopped being on the same team.”

She smiled.

“We just needed another game to play.”

Outside, the evening sun settled quietly behind the trees.

Inside, the business plan continued to take shape.

And somewhere between spreadsheets, licensing requirements, and handwritten notes, Sa’eed and Maryam stopped asking one another,

“What should we do today?”

Part One: Finding Our Rhythm Again

By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

The first morning of retirement arrived without an alarm clock.

For nearly thirty years, Sa’eed had awakened before dawn, performed Fajr, and headed to the Mediterranean grocery store he had built with years of hard work, patience, and countless du’as. Long before most of the neighborhood stirred awake, he was unlocking the doors, receiving deliveries, arranging fresh produce, greeting suppliers, and preparing for another day of serving the community. The store had become more than a livelihood. It had become the rhythm by which he measured his life.

Now that rhythm had ended.

The papers had been signed weeks earlier. The final inventory had been counted. The keys had been placed into the hands of the store’s new owner with warm smiles, sincere congratulations, and prayers that Allaah would place barakah in the business just as He had for Sa’eed all those years. Driving home that afternoon, Sa’eed had expected retirement to feel like freedom. After decades of early mornings, late evenings, and endless responsibility, he imagined long, peaceful days filled with books he had postponed reading, leisurely breakfasts with Maryam, visits to the masjid, and perhaps even the occasional afternoon nap.

For a little while, it was exactly as he had imagined.

He lingered over breakfast instead of eating while reading invoices. He found himself attending more prayers at the masjid. He finally read books that had remained untouched on his shelves for years. Some afternoons he and Maryam drove through familiar neighborhoods with no destination in mind, simply enjoying one another’s company. Other evenings they sat together on the back porch with steaming cups of tea, watching the neighborhood settle beneath the colors of another sunset. They were grateful. They often reminded one another of that. Allaah had blessed them with good health, righteous children, grandchildren who visited often, and a marriage that had carried them through nearly four decades.

Yet as the weeks quietly turned into months, something neither of them expected slowly settled over the house.

Silence.

Not an uncomfortable silence.

Just… an unfamiliar one.

The bedrooms that had once echoed with laughter now remained perfectly tidy. The hallway no longer filled with hurried footsteps on school mornings. The refrigerator stayed organized because no one raided it after midnight. Shoes no longer gathered beside the front door. Even the laundry baskets seemed smaller than either of them remembered.

One afternoon, while folding towels together, Maryam caught herself smiling at the memory of tripping over backpacks that had once been scattered across the hallway.

“What is it?” Sa’eed asked.

“I was just remembering how badly I wanted a clean house.”

“And now?”

She folded another towel before answering.

“Sometimes I miss the mess.”

Sa’eed chuckled softly.

“So do I.”

Neither of them realized it then, but they were not really talking about toys, backpacks, or laundry.

They were talking about purpose.

For decades their days had been shaped by responsibility. There were children to raise, bills to pay, parent-teacher conferences to attend, family dinners to prepare, school plays to applaud, weddings to plan, grandchildren to welcome, and careers that demanded the best of them. Their calendars had always been full, not because they sought busyness, but because life had required it.

Now life required something different.

Most mornings began the same way. They prayed Fajr together, recited Qur’an, prepared breakfast, washed the dishes, and discussed whatever errands needed to be done. By midmorning those errands were often finished. The afternoons stretched comfortably but aimlessly before them.

“So,” Sa’eed would ask with a smile, “what should we do today?”

Maryam usually smiled back.

“I don’t know.”

Some days they visited one of their children. Other days they stopped by the masjid to see familiar faces. Occasionally they wandered through bookstores or home improvement centers, leaving empty-handed but content with the outing. None of it was unpleasant. In fact, much of it was enjoyable.

Still, every evening seemed to end with the quiet realization that tomorrow would probably look very much the same.

Maryam noticed the changes in her husband long before he spoke about them.

She had spent thirty-five years teaching children, but nearly forty years learning Sa’eed.

She noticed he reorganized the garage twice within a month. One week he alphabetized every spice in the kitchen. Another afternoon she found him polishing tools that already gleamed.

Standing in the kitchen doorway, she watched him carefully adjusting the labels on jars that needed no adjustment.

“You’ve been busy,” she said with an amused smile.

Sa’eed looked up innocently.

“I was just making things easier to find.”

Maryam laughed.

“They were already in alphabetical order.”

He glanced around the shelves as though searching for another explanation.

“I made the labels larger.”

She folded her arms gently.

“You always organize things when your mind is trying to organize something else.”

He looked at her for a long moment before smiling.

“You still know me better than anyone.”

“I should hope so,” she replied. “I’ve had almost forty years to study.”

That evening, after Maghrib, they carried their tea onto the front porch as they had done nearly every evening since retirement. The neighborhood children chased one another along the sidewalk while bicycles rattled past and sprinklers clicked across freshly cut lawns. It was a peaceful scene, one they had worked hard to earn after decades of sacrifice.

Yet something lingered beneath the quiet.

Sa’eed finally spoke.

“It’s strange.”

Maryam looked over.

“What is?”

“I spent years looking forward to retirement because I thought I’d finally have time.”

“And now you do.”

“I do.”

He stared into his cup before continuing.

“I guess I just don’t know what Allaah wants me to do with it.”

Maryam didn’t answer immediately.

Some thoughts deserved silence before advice.

Instead she watched the children laughing across the street until one little boy raced toward his mother, who welcomed him with open arms before they disappeared inside together.

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” she admitted.

Sa’eed turned toward her.

“You have?”

She nodded.

“Our children are doing well, alhamdulillaah.”

“They are.”

“They have their own families now.”

“They do.”

She smiled.

“I used to wish for a quiet house.”

“And now?”

She looked through the screen door into the hallway beyond.

“Sometimes it’s a little too quiet.”

Sa’eed followed her gaze.

“I miss finding little shoes by the front door.”

Maryam laughed.

“I don’t miss stepping on building blocks.”

“No,” he agreed with a grin.

“Neither do I.”

They both laughed, but the laughter faded into another thoughtful silence.

After a while Maryam asked, “Do you remember our first apartment?”

Sa’eed smiled immediately.

“With the noisy radiator that sounded like it was making dhikr all winter?”

“And the kitchen barely large enough for one person.”

“We somehow managed to fit two.”

“We managed a lot with very little.”

For the next several minutes they remembered those early years together. Borrowed furniture. Secondhand dishes. A tiny dining table where they spent evenings dreaming about children they had not yet met, careers they had not yet begun, and a future only Allaah could see.

“We talked for hours back then,” Maryam said softly.

“About everything.”

“Our plans.”

“Our dreams.”

“What kind of parents we hoped to become.”

Sa’eed smiled at the memories.

“We always seemed to be building something.”

Maryam nodded thoughtfully.

“I think that’s what I miss.”

He looked at her curiously.

“The children?”

She slowly shook her head.

“No.”

She reached across the small table and gently rested her hand over his.

“I miss building something with you.”

Sa’eed looked down at her hand resting on his own.

For nearly forty years they had shared a life built on faith, trust, sacrifice, and love. They had weathered financial hardships, celebrated joyful milestones, raised children, buried parents, welcomed grandchildren, and thanked Allaah through every season. Their marriage had never lacked kindness or respect.

But somewhere between raising children and preparing for retirement, routines had quietly become the framework of their days. The routines had served them well. They had carried them through every responsibility Allaah had entrusted to them.

Now those responsibilities had changed.

Perhaps their routines needed to change as well.

Maryam looked toward the quiet hallway once more before smiling.

“I’ve been thinking about an idea.”

Sa’eed chuckled.

“I was wondering how long you’d keep it to yourself.”

“You knew?”

“I’ve been married to you long enough to recognize that look.”

“And what look is that?”

“The one that usually changes our lives.”

Maryam laughed.

“It just might.”

Sa’eed smiled warmly.

“Then tell me.”

She looked around the peaceful home that had sheltered their family for so many years.

“What would you think…”

She paused just long enough for him to become curious.

The Unexpected Growth

Growth did not arrive the way they expected.

It came quietly at first.

More shoes at the door.

More voices lingering after prayer.

More questions than answers.

And then, with it, came discomfort.

The old carriage shop had begun to take shape.

What was once dust and disuse now held rhythm. Carpets lined the floor. Lamps cast a steady light. The space had been divided with care, allowing for wudu and prayer, for men and women alike.

It was not large.

It was not refined.

But it was theirs.

And it was growing.

Ahmet Kaya stood near the front one evening, watching as small groups formed naturally across the room.

Some reviewed what they had learned.

Others spoke in low tones about faith, about change, about the weight of trying to live correctly after years of not knowing how.

He listened.

And he felt it.

A limit.

Ahmet had never claimed scholarship.

He was a man of practice. Of inheritance. Of structure passed down carefully from those before him.

But now the questions were coming faster.

Deeper.

More precise.

And he knew, with a clarity he could not ignore, that he was reaching the edge of what he could responsibly teach.

Slowly, without announcement, the musalla began to shift.

It was still a place of prayer.

But it had also become something more.

A place to gather.

To reconnect.

To rebuild something that had once been lost.

A community forming itself in real time.

The door burst open one evening.

Jamal.

Breath quick. Eyes wide.

“There’s more of us.”

The room turned.

“What do you mean?” Kareem asked.

Jamal stepped forward, still catching his breath.

“Another group. Here. In Bronzeville. They’ve been gathering… learning. Led by a Shaykh.”

Ahmet’s expression tightened slightly. “Who?”

“Mufti Muhammad Sadiq.”

The name settled into the room.

Some had heard it before.

Others had not.

Jamal continued, energy spilling forward.

“And there’s talk… another movement. A temple opening soon. They’re calling it the Moorish Science Temple.”

A pause followed.

Not of fear.

But of weight.

Ahmet lowered his gaze briefly before speaking.

“This is not about numbers,” he said calmly.

No one disagreed.

“Our goal has always been the same.”

“The pleasure of Allaah.”

Again, silence, but one of agreement.

Still, something in him shifted.

Ahmet had heard of the Mufti.

From other Turks.

From travelers.

From quiet conversations spoken with caution.

A man trained in the Hanafi tradition.

Familiar.

And yet…

Not entirely.

“There are things,” Ahmet said carefully, “that are being said… that are not clear.”

He did not accuse.

He did not dismiss.

But he did not ignore.

“I do not fear difference,” he continued.

“But I do not accept change in what has already been established.”

His voice remained even.

Measured.

“The return of Isa ibn Maryam, peace be upon him… is known.”

“Not replaced.”

“Not reinterpreted into something else.”

The room listened closely now.

Because this was no longer information.

This was direction.

“And as for what is being said elsewhere…” he added, without naming it directly, “we must be careful.”

Careful.

The word stayed with them.

Idris nodded slowly.

“We’ve come too far guessing,” he said.

Kareem added, “We need to be sure now.”

Not just sincere.

But correct.

Jamal shifted.

Not in disagreement.

But in pull.

“I just… want to learn,” he said.

“And if there are people teaching…”

His voice trailed.

No one challenged him.

Because they understood.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

And the shift became visible.

Jamal began spending more time away, learning.

Attending lessons.

Listening.

Learning in ways he felt he needed.

Eventually, his presence in the carriage shop became occasional.

Then rare.

Others followed.

Not many.

But enough to be felt.

One family.

Then a few individuals.

Some drawn by structure.

Others by certainty.

And some simply by curiosity.

The musalla did not empty.

But it changed.

There was no argument.

No division spoken aloud.

No harsh words exchanged.

Only distance.

Forming quietly.

Ahmet watched it happen without trying to stop it.

Because he understood something the others were still learning.

Growth does not only add.

Sometimes, it separates.

One evening, the remaining group sat together after prayer.

Closer than before.

Not by design.

But by necessity.

“We need help,” Kareem said plainly.

No one disagreed.

Ahmet nodded.

“For their sake,” he said, “and for ours.”

Idris leaned forward.

“Then we find it.”

That night, they began writing letters.

Carefully.

Respectfully.

Reaching outward beyond Bronzeville.

Beyond Chicago.

Seeking someone grounded.

Someone learned.

Someone who could teach not just with sincerity…

But with knowledge.

The room felt smaller.

But steadier.

And for the first time since the growth began…

The LIBRARIES THAT RAISED ME - The Final Boss on Fifth Avenue

By the time I returned north from Augusta in late 1996, I was no longer the same person who had left New Jersey earlier that year.

Not dramatically different.

Not transformed into someone entirely new overnight.

But changed enough internally to notice it quietly in myself.

Augusta had slowed me down.

The Savannah River.

The libraries.

The buses.

The long afternoons reading beneath Georgia trees.

The nights spent trying to understand my future.

All of it stayed with me after returning home.

Once back in New Jersey, I naturally resumed visiting the familiar libraries that had already become part of my life for years.

Roselle.

Elizabeth.

The routines returned easily.

But something inside me had shifted.

I no longer entered libraries simply looking for books to pass time.

Now I entered searching.

Searching for ideas.

Searching for understanding.

Searching for worlds larger than the neighborhoods I already knew.

Around that time, I also resumed my usual trips into Jersey City and Manhattan.

Back then, those train rides themselves felt like adventures.

Sometimes I would head toward Newport Mall in Jersey City.

Other times Manhattan Mall.

The PATH trains carried entire moving worlds inside them. Workers. Tourists. Teenagers. Street musicians. Exhausted commuters leaning back against windows. Conversations in accents from everywhere.

New York always felt like several countries existing at once beneath the same skyline.

And one afternoon, during one of those trips into Manhattan, I accidentally came across the New York Public Library main branch on Fifth Avenue.

I still remember the first moment I saw it from the street.

The building itself felt intimidating.

Not hostile.

Not cold.

Just overwhelmingly important.

Even standing outside, I felt goosebumps rise along my arms.

Until then, every library in my life had still somehow felt connected to neighborhood scale.

East Orange.

Roselle.

Elizabeth.

Even Augusta.

But this was something different entirely.

This felt monumental.

Like literature itself had built a headquarters.

I remember standing there staring upward before finally walking inside.

And honestly, entering the building felt like encountering the Final Boss of the Great Library Quest.

That is still the only way I know how to describe it properly.

The ceilings.

The architecture.

The silence.

The scale of everything.

People moved through the building with a seriousness that made me lower my own voice instinctively. Readers sat beneath the grand ceilings of enormous rooms surrounded by more books than my younger mind could even process properly.

I cannot honestly remember many of the specific titles I pulled from shelves there.

That surprises even me now.

But what I do remember is the feeling.

Every book felt important.

Every aisle felt endless.

Every section felt like a doorway into another world entirely.

At times it honestly felt less like reading and more like boarding ships preparing to leave port.

And perhaps that feeling connected so deeply with me because around that same period I was preparing to enter the United States Navy and become a Seabee.

Even that transition strangely connected itself back to libraries.

At one point, the MEPS processing stations in North Jersey temporarily closed, causing New Jersey recruits and New York City recruits to merge operations through Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn.

Suddenly my life felt surrounded by movement again.

Trains.

Subways.

Recruitment offices.

Processing stations.

Military paperwork.

Future destinations still unknown.

And somewhere in the middle of all of it, I found myself increasingly drawn toward books connected to oceans, exploration, military history, navigation, and ships.

Moby-Dick.

Books about naval warfare.

Books about ancient fleets.

Books explaining knots and seamanship.

Books about oceans and distant parts of the world.

Looking back now, it almost feels obvious what was happening psychologically.

My mind was preparing itself for departure before my body officially left.

And the New York Public Library somehow became part of that transition.

That building expanded my understanding of scale.

Until then, stories still felt connected primarily to neighborhoods and cities I personally understood.

But inside the NYPL, literature suddenly felt global.

Civilizations.

Wars.

Exploration.

Philosophy.

Religion.

History.

Entire worlds sat quietly on shelves waiting for strangers to open them.

The experience humbled me.

It also excited me.

Because somewhere inside those enormous reading rooms, I began realizing that stories were not limited by geography.

A story could begin on a block in East Orange.

It could travel through Roselle.

Cross through Augusta.

Walk beside the Savannah River.

And still eventually arrive beneath the towering ceilings of Fifth Avenue.

At that age, I still had no idea what my own future story would ultimately become.

I did not yet know where the Navy would carry me.

I did not yet know how much of my life would eventually revolve around books, storytelling, publishing, libraries, literacy, or writing.

But I understood something important after walking through those halls.

The world was far larger than I had once imagined as a child staring from a second-floor window across from Ampere Station.

Part Four: Blossoms After Rain

By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

The nikah had lasted less than fifteen minutes.

The imam praised Allaah, reminded everyone to fear Him, and recited the verses that had brought comfort to countless marriages before theirs.

Idris accepted.

Huda accepted.

Du’aa filled the room.

Families embraced.

Tea was poured.

Children laughed.

There was no extravagant ballroom.

No towering wedding cake.

No debt.

Only grateful hearts asking Allaah to place barakah between two servants who hoped to help one another reach Jannah.

The wedding was simple.

Exactly as they had prayed it would be.

And then… life began.

The first few weeks were filled with little discoveries.

Idris folded towels differently.

Huda labeled nearly every jar in the pantry.

He liked opening the windows after Fajr to let the morning air into the house.

She preferred reading a few pages from a book before sleeping.

One evening, Idris searched nearly ten minutes for the measuring cups before laughing.

“Huda…”

“Yes?”

“Did you organize the kitchen again?”

She smiled.

“I improved it.”

He chuckled.

“I suppose I have studying to do.”

Marriage, they discovered, was not about changing one another.

It was about learning one another.

Not every conversation went perfectly.

Once, after a long day, they misunderstood each other over something so small neither of them remembered what had started it.

Silence settled over the room.

A few moments later, Idris spoke first.

“I’m sorry.”

Before he finished, Huda replied,

“So am I.”

Neither cared about winning.

They cared about protecting what Allaah had entrusted to them.

One morning, the adhan echoed softly through the Smart House Speakers before sunrise.

Neither had to wake the other.

They simply rose.

While Idris made wudu, Huda quietly spread the prayer rugs.

They offered Fajr together.

Afterward, they remained seated, each making personal du’aa before quietly remembering Allaah together.

No audience.

No photographs.

No one to praise them.

Only a husband and wife trying to begin another day in obedience to their Lord.

As the morning sunlight reached the living room, Huda looked around their home.

The prayer rugs.

The Qur’an resting on the shelf.

The familiar sound of Idris making tea in the kitchen.

Years earlier, she had imagined a home exactly like this.

Only now did she realize she had never been dreaming about walls or furniture.

She had been longing for tranquility.

Marriage did not lessen their service to others.

It multiplied it.

On Saturdays, Huda still prepared meals for elderly sisters in the community.

Now Idris carried the containers to the car.

When winter arrived, Idris still shoveled the sidewalks of elderly neighbors before they awoke.

Now Huda packed extra cups of hot coffee for him afterward.

Their parents rarely ate alone.

Some weekends they visited Idris’s family.

Other weekends they visited Huda’s.

Sometimes both families gathered together around one table, sharing stories and laughter that made it difficult to remember a time when they had ever been strangers.

One evening, while driving home, Huda smiled.

“I married into another family.”

Idris glanced at her.

“So did I.”

Several months later, after praying ’Isha, they remained seated on their prayer rugs.

Idris quietly raised his hands.

“O Allaah…”

“If You bless us with children…”

“Make them among the righteous.”

Huda softly whispered,

“Ameen.”

Neither asked when.

Neither demanded how.

They simply placed another hope into the Hands that had never failed them.

Then they stood, folded the prayer rugs, and carried on with their evening.

Eid morning arrived wrapped in sunlight.

The house smelled of cinnamon, fresh bread, and simmering tea.

Children from the neighborhood began arriving almost as soon as they returned from the Eid prayer.

Some came for candy.

Others for games.

A few simply wanted to see “Uncle Idris” and “Auntie Huda.”

The living room quickly filled with tiny voices.

Little hands reached for cookies.

Crayons scattered across the dining table.

Laughter echoed through every room.

Near the front door, Huda knelt to straighten the rows of tiny sandals and little shoes that had gathered by the entrance.

She stopped.

Months ago… she had imagined little shoes because she longed for children of her own.

Now those tiny shoes belonged to the neighborhood children filling her home with joy.

She smiled.

Not because every du’aa had already been answered.

But because Allaah had already answered more of them than she had realized.

Her home was full.

Not exactly the way she had imagined.

Exactly the way Allaah had written.

That evening, after the last family had gone home, silence returned.

The dishes had been washed.

The lanterns still glowed softly on the porch.

Huda and Idris sat together watching the last colors of sunset disappear beyond the horizon.

Neither spoke for several minutes.

There was nothing that needed saying.

Finally, Idris smiled.

“Alhamdulillaah.”

Huda looked toward him.

“For everything.”

He nodded.

“For everything.”

Huda had once believed that waiting was empty.

Now she understood.

Waiting had never been empty at all.

It had been a garden.

Every prayer had been a seed.

Every tear had watered the soil.

Every act of patience had sent its roots deeper into faith.

And when Allaah finally caused the blossoms to appear, she realized they had not grown overnight.

They had been growing all along.

For where patience is planted…

Part Four: I Choose You Again

By Abu Hudhayfah Edwards

Winter arrived gently that year.

The maple trees that had blazed with color only weeks before now stood quietly beneath pale gray skies, their branches swaying softly whenever the wind wandered through the neighborhood. Most evenings Yusuf and Maryam still kept the promise they had made to themselves months earlier. After Maghrib they bundled themselves against the cold and walked slowly through their neighborhood, sometimes speaking about books they wanted to read or grandchildren they hoped would visit soon, and sometimes saying nothing at all. They had discovered that silence no longer needed to be filled. It had become another way of enjoying one another’s company.

The poems had become less frequent.

Not because Yusuf had run out of words.

Rather, he had learned that gratitude was most beautiful when it was spoken while the moment still existed. If Maryam prepared one of his favorite meals, he thanked her before the plates were cleared. If she laughed at one of his jokes, he laughed with her instead of quietly storing the memory away. If she looked particularly beautiful upon his arrival home following work or the Masjid, he no longer kept the thought to himself.

The little folded notes still appeared from time to time, but now they shared the work with ordinary conversation.

One Tuesday afternoon Yusuf left work a little earlier than usual and drove to the masjid. The imam welcomed him warmly and invited him into his office, where shelves filled with well-worn books lined the walls and a kettle quietly steamed beside the window.

“It isn’t often you visit me in the middle of the afternoon,” the imam said with a smile.

“I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all. Sit down.”

For a few moments Yusuf simply looked around the room. It was the same office where they had sat together before his nikah thirty-five years earlier. The furniture had changed. The imam’s beard had grown completely white. Yet the room somehow felt exactly the same.

Finally Yusuf smiled.

“I’ve come to ask a favor.”

“If Allaah wills and I am able.”

Yusuf nodded thoughtfully.

“Thirty-five years ago you stood with Maryam and me while we began our marriage.”

“I remember.”

“I was twenty years old.”

“And nervous.”

Yusuf laughed.

“Very.”

The imam smiled at the memory.

“What favor do you need from me now?”

Yusuf lowered his eyes before answering.

“I’d like you to stand with us again.”

The imam remained silent.

“I’d like to renew our Nikkah.”

For several moments neither man spoke.

Then the imam’s face slowly brightened into a smile.

“Alhamdulillaah.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve officiated many marriages.”

He paused.

“But I have never been asked to witness a husband and wife renewing one out of gratitude.”

Yusuf smiled quietly.

“There is nothing broken.”

“I know.”

“I simply want to thank Allaah for preserving what He gave us.”

The imam nodded.

“Then let us thank Him properly.”

Over the following weeks Yusuf quietly began making arrangements.

Telephone calls were made after Maryam had gone to bed. Their children answered with puzzled curiosity that quickly turned into warm laughter as each learned what their father was planning.

“So that’s why you’ve been writing poems.”

“I suppose so.”

“You know Ummi is going to cry.”

“I expect she will.”

“So will you.”

Yusuf laughed.

“Probably.”

Each conversation ended with the same request.

“Please don’t tell your mother.”

Every child promised.

Meanwhile, Maryam noticed only that Yusuf had become unusually busy.

Several evenings she found him speaking softly on the telephone before quickly ending the conversation when she entered the room. Other nights he disappeared into his little office with a notebook tucked beneath his arm, returning an hour later with the peaceful smile that had become so familiar over the past year.

One evening, after they returned from their walk following Maghrib, Maryam set two cups of tea on the kitchen table and looked across at her husband.

“You’re planning something.”

Yusuf smiled over the rim of his cup.

“What makes you think that?”

“You’ve been smiling at your phone.”

“I have?”

“You’ve closed your office door three nights this week.”

“I suppose I have.”

“And,” she added with a grin, “you’re a terrible secret keeper.”

He laughed.

“I’ve discovered that.”

She leaned forward.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Maryam shook her head.

“I’ve known you for thirty-five years.”

“I know.”

“You’ve never surprised me.”

He smiled.

“I’m learning.”

Saturday arrived wrapped in crisp winter sunshine.

After breakfast Yusuf casually mentioned that they had been invited to a small semi-formal gathering at the masjid after ’Asr.

“The imam said several families would be there.”

Maryam looked up from her tea.

“For what?”

“He called it an afternoon of gratitude.”

She smiled.

“That sounds like something he would organize.”

“I thought so too.”

Later that afternoon she chose one of her favorite abayas, smoothing the sleeves before adjusting her hijab in the hallway mirror. When she turned around she found Yusuf watching her with a quiet smile.

“What?”

“You look beautiful.”

She laughed.

“You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

“I’ve been thinking it for thirty-five years.”

She smiled.