Amina walked down the street toward the main road, the soft crunch of early-morning sand under her slippers steadying her heartbeat. The sun was only beginning to rise, painting everything in a pale gold that made the world look gentler than it felt.
Her mind wasn't gentle.
It was loud, restless.
Every step pulled her further away from the argument, the tension, and the weight inside the house. She didn't know exactly where she was going, but she knew she needed space just for an hour just to breathe.
As she reached the junction, her phone buzzed again.
Usman.
"Are you coming?"
A small smile tugged at her lips.
"Yes," she typed.
"I'm almost there."
She slipped the phone into her bag and crossed the road.
The small shop stood exactly as it always had blue paint peeling a little on the edges, shelves stacked with biscuits and milk tins, the small glass fridge humming faintly. But today, something felt different. Or maybe she was the one who had changed.
Usman stepped outside just as she approached. He wore a simple brown kaftan, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. The morning light caught the edges of his hair, and for a moment she forgot how heavy her world had been only an hour ago.
His eyes softened when he saw her.
"Amina."
"Good morning," she said.
"Better than last night?"
She hesitated. "A little."
He opened the door for her. "Come inside. Sit."
She followed him in. The shop smelled of new bread and powdered milk, familiar in a way that calmed her nerves.
He pulled a plastic chair for her. "You look tired."
"I didn't sleep," she admitted.
"Did something happen after you left yesterday?"
She nodded slowly. "A lot."
Usman didn't rush her. He didn't push the questions. He just sat across from her, steady and patient something she wasn't used to.
She exhaled, long and shaky. "Maryam and my father fought. She got angry when he finally confronted her. She said I was trying to take him away from her… like a rivalry."
Usman frowned deeply. "That woman…"
"She's afraid," Amina whispered, surprising herself with the realization. "Not of me, but of losing her place."
"Still no excuse for the way she treats you."
"I know."
Silence settled for a few seconds. Not heavy—just thoughtful.
Then Usman spoke quietly. "What do you want to do next?"
Amina looked at her fingers. "I don't know. I want peace, but peace doesn't come easily in that house."
He leaned back, watching her. "You don't have to carry everything alone. You know that, right?"
She swallowed. "I'm trying to believe it."
Usman opened the fridge and pulled out a cold bottle of water. "Here."
"Thank you."
As she drank, the shop door chimed softly—someone coming in. It was a woman in her early thirties, holding a small child. She bought bread and left quickly.
But Amina caught something in her eyes. Recognition.
People had started whispering about the drama at her house. It wasn't surprising; nothing stayed private in their community for long.
When the door shut again, Usman turned to her.
"You shouldn't let their gossip worry you."
Amina sighed. "It's not the gossip. It's the burden of always being the girl who endures."
Usman's eyes softened. "You're not just enduring. You're fighting."
She looked at him. "But fighting alone is exhausting."
"You're not alone," he said quietly.
Her heart did a small, unexpected somersault.
But before she could respond, her phone rang.
Her father.
Amina inhaled slowly. "I should pick."
She answered. "Hello, Daddy."
"Amina," his voice came through, heavy and tired. "Where are you?"
"At the shop."
"Please come home. We need to talk."
"Is Maryam there?"
"Yes. But she won't interrupt."
Amina hesitated.
This conversation would either calm the storm or worsen it.
Usman watched her, reading her expression easily.
"I'll come," she finally said.
"Okay," her father replied. "Please don't take long."
The line ended.
She lowered the phone and met Usman's eyes.
"You have to go," he said gently.
"I know."
He stood and walked her to the door. Just as she reached it, he stopped her with a soft, cautious touch to her wrist.
"Amina," he said, "don't let anyone Maryam, the neighbors, anyone make you feel small today."
Her chest tightened. "I'll try."
He gave a small, warm smile. "Good. And if things get too much, call me."
"I will."
She stepped out and walked home.
When she reached the gate, her father was standing there, waiting. His posture wasn't angry—more… uncertain.
"Amina," he said, opening the gate. "Come in."
Inside, Maryam was sitting in the living room. Her shawl was neatly wrapped now, her expression unreadable.
Amina stood near the doorway. "You said you wanted to talk."
Her father motioned to the sofa. "Sit."
She sat.
Maryam didn't look at her. Not directly. But the tension in her jaw said enough.
Her father cleared his throat. "We need to fix this house. I don't want fights anymore."
Amina's fingers tightened. "I agree."
Maryam scoffed quietly. "You always agree when you're winning."
Amina shut her eyes briefly, gathering patience. "Nobody is trying to win. I just want peace."
Her father raised a hand. "Maryam."
But Maryam leaned forward, her voice thin and sharp. "You don't understand, Suleiman. You never do. Ever since she grew up, she has acted as if she's the only one suffering."
Amina lifted her gaze slowly. "You think I haven't suffered?"
Maryam's eyes flashed. "Everyone suffers, Amina. You are not special."
Amina's breath caught—not at the words, but at the years of silence behind them.
She spoke softly. "I never said I was special. I just wanted a home where I didn't feel punished every day."
Maryam's face twitched, but she didn't look away.
Her father rubbed his forehead. "I made mistakes," he said quietly. "Both of you were hurting. But we can change things now."
"How?" Amina whispered. "How do we change years of fear?"
Maryam flinched.
Not dramatically. Just enough for Amina to notice.
"Amina," her father said gently, "Maryam is willing to try."
Maryam stiffened. "I didn't say—"
"Maryam."
Her jaw tightened. "Fine. I will try."
She didn't sound genuine.
But Amina didn't expect perfection.
She just needed space to breathe.
"I'll give it a chance," Amina said.
It was the closest thing to peace they could reach.
Her father exhaled in relief.
Maryam looked away, as if the conversation had left a strange taste in her mouth.
But Amina sensed something shifting—small, fragile, but real.
A slow, unsteady step toward change.
That evening, after prayers, Amina sat outside under the mango tree where her father had sat in the morning. The air was cool, carrying the smell of sand and distant cooking fires.
Her thoughts wandered… then circled back to Usman.
To the gentleness in his voice.
To the steady way he looked at her.
To the quiet support she hadn't realized she needed.
Her phone buzzed.
Usman:
"How did it go?"
Amina typed slowly.
"We talked. It wasn't smooth, but… something changed."
Usman:
"I'm glad. You deserve peace."
Her chest warmed.
Amina:
"Thank you. For today."
Usman:
"Anytime. I mean it."
She hesitated before typing again.
Amina:
"Usman why are you always there for me?"
There was a brief pause before the three dots appeared.
Usman:
"Because you matter to me."
Her breath stilled.
She stared at the words for a long moment.
Then typed:
Amina:
"You matter to me too."
Her heart thudded softly as she hit send.
The world felt a little less heavy.
A little less lonely.
A little more like something new was beginning.
She leaned back on the chair, looking at the sky as the stars slowly faded in.
For the first time in a long while, Amina felt the faint, unfamiliar stir of hope.
And she held onto it gently, like something precious.