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Purple coneflower: Healing
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The frustrating realization I'm starting to come to terms with is that pursuing medicine is going to be difficult.

I've been talking to Aneela constantly, flipping through Arafat's old materials and textbooks, doing tons of research, and a plethora of other things to try to map out possibly the next couple of years of my life.

I find myself constantly wishing Arafat were here. I have so many questions that only he would have been able to answer. I tend to be in a constant state of missing him—that never really goes away and I don't think it ever will—but the feeling has been heightened lately.

But since I've been talking to Rameez more and more frequently, I've noticed that I feel...happy and at ease again. It's foreign and kind of terrifying, but the fact that I'm able to feel something other than grief provides me with a sense of relief I didn't realize I was yearning for.

While doing my research one day, something prompts me to open my Princeton acceptance letter again. I simply stare at the screen for a few minutes, sharp tears pricking at my eyes.

I am obviously well past the deadline to accept and enroll, but even if I wasn't, I wouldn't be able to attend. It's about an hour's drive from my house, and that alone comes with a host of issues: 1) I don't drive anymore, so someone in my family (probably Ihsaan) would constantly be burdened with chauffeuring me. 2) An hour's drive means I would spend most of my day on campus, and I can't afford to leave my mom or the house for that long. 3) I technically got a full ride, but dorming is completely out of the question. I'm needed here.

In no world would attending Princeton work out for me.

My despondent thoughts are interrupted by the jingle of Ihsaan's keys as he enters the house. He makes his way to the kitchen and plops two bags of takeout on the island. His tired eyes rove over the mess on the kitchen table—my laptop, textbooks, other materials—and his brows incline.

"What's going on here?"

"Salaam to you, too," I huff, folding my arms.

"Sorry. Salaam. What are you doing?"

"Just figuring some college and premed stuff out. Aneela's been helping me."

At the mention of Aneela, his shoulders immediately tense, but he reigns any emotions in with calculated practice as he nods. "Sounds good. Do you wanna take a break and eat? I brought shrimp and rice."

I squeal, and Ihsaan's expression goes from tense to amused. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! Yes, let's eat. Papa's almost home. I'll get some juice from the pantry."

I make my way to the back side of the kitchen towards the pantry while Ihsaan opens the takeout boxes. I rummage through the pantry for a couple minutes, but am unable to find the boxes of juice Ihsaan bought a couple days ago.

"Ihsaan!" I shout. "Where's the juice?"

Silence.

"Ihsaan?"

I'm met with silence yet again. Unnerved because I didn't hear him go upstairs, I head back to the front of the kitchen and stop short.

Ihsaan is standing in front of my laptop, eyes widened at the screen. His hands have tightened and his knuckles have begun to turn white. He raises his shocked gaze to mine, all traces of fatigue having vanished.

"You got into Princeton?" he whispers.

Oh, my God. I forgot to close my laptop lid. I take a deep breath and open my mouth to respond, but suddenly language fails me.

"Hayat," he says, voice muted but carrying a groundbreaking intensity. "You got into Princeton University?"

There's no point hiding this anymore. The truth is right in front of him.

I nod slowly, averting my gaze.

Ihsaan makes a sound somewhere between a choked laugh and an expression of utter bewilderment, and I can't help but look up at the disturbed expression on his face.

"Oh, my God. I knew you said this the other day when you were sick, but you kept denying it. Why didn't you tell anyone?" He's back to whispering, as if the weight of the words is affecting the timbre of his voice.

I play around with the ends of my hair. "Why do you think?"

"No, don't do that," Ihsaan says, continuously fisting and opening his shaky hands. "Answer my question."

I shrug. "Maybe because it wouldn't have been possible?"

"What do you mean?"

I scoff, finally looking into his eyes. "What do you think would have happened here if I left?" I gesture around the house. "This place would have gone up in flames. Mama never leaves her room anymore, you and Papa are too busy at work, who else would have taken care of the house and Mama?"

Ihsaan's eyes are filled with a grief that seems to shatter upon my last question. "We would have figured something out," he says quietly.

I laugh mirthlessly. "Yeah, right. There was no other option for us. I had to do what I had to do. So you have no right to be angry."

"I'm not"—Ihsaan sighs, rubs a hand along the length of his face—"I'm not angry at you, Hayat. I'm angry for you. I'm angry you let something like this slide and didn't share it with anyone."

I shrug again. "Doesn't matter. Besides, this wasn't really a priority for me anymore. Right after I got this news, I got the most horrible news of my life. So I didn't really give a damn anymore."

"And now?" he says quietly, eyes flitting back to my laptop screen.

I'm silent, playing with the ends of my hair again. Finally I say, "I don't wanna talk about this. Can we just set the table?"

"But Hayat—"

"Please," I mumble, clasping my hands together.

Ihsaan presses his lips together, and even though I can tell he wants to say more, I proceed to set the table, and he mimics my actions quietly.

Dinners at the Amanullah house are usually quiet now—save for my dad trying to make conversation every now and then—but today is especially quiet. Papa's forehead is lined with wrinkles from a project at work, Mama is pushing around her food as usual, and Ihsaan is barely eating, eyes constantly darting to me before flitting away.

When everyone settles in for bed, I'm wrapped up in my blanket reading the gardening book Steph lent me when I hear voices from my parents' room.

My brows knit as I hold my breath, trying to eavesdrop on the louder-than-usual conversation.

I'm unable to hear what they're talking about, so I quietly make my way upstairs to my parents' room, tiptoeing to a stop right outside their door. I arrive just in time to hear Ihsaan grit out, "Seriously, Mama. Enough."

I hold my breath as I wait for my mom's response to this uncharacteristically hostile tone, but it doesn't arrive. Ihsaan continues in a sharp voice, "We're all grieving, we're all hurting. But this needs to stop. If not for me or Papa or even yourself, then for the eighteen-year-old girl downstairs who is sacrificing everything to take care of this entire damn household."

My heart thuds against my chest. What is Ihsaan doing?

I hear the croak of my mom's voice as she says, "I lost my son, Ihsaan."

"And your other son is still here!" Ihsaan shouts, causing me to flinch. "Your daughter is still here! Your husband is still here! We can never get rid of the pain of losing Arafat, but we can make sure we're still living for those who are here." His voice lowers, but it's still tense. "I know you're hurting, Mama. Papa lost his son, too. Hayat and I lost our brother, too. But enough now. It's almost been five months and you don't speak, you don't eat, you don't leave your room, you don't take care of yourself at all. This needs to stop."

Silence, then my dad quietly says, "He's right, Laila."

All of sudden, the sound of Mama's sobbing emerges from my parents' room. A cleft forms between my brows, and I have half a mind to barge inside, wrap her in a hug, and take all her worries away.

"Did you know, Mama and Papa"—Ihsaan's voice softens a bit—"That your daughter downstairs, who cooks and cleans and takes care of all of our needs, who barely hangs out with her friends anymore, and who never complains, got into Princeton University? Yes, exactly, both of you should be shocked. Do you know why she never enrolled?"

The only response is the sound of my mother's sobs.

"Because she has too many responsibilities at home. Because she's grown too much over the past five months and thinks this family relies on her too much for her to be able to study."

I dare to peek through the crack in the door. Ihsaan sighs and sits down at the edge of the bed, grasping Mama's hand and stroking his thumb along it. "Mama, none of us will ever truly get over Arafat's death. But we have to move on. We have to keep living, if not for ourselves then for each other. Over time, Allah will heal our pain, Insha Allah. We just have to trust Him and trust each other. Please." His voice breaks on the last word as he leans down and kisses my mom's hand. "We need you, Mama. We need you."

I watch as my dad pats Ihsaan's back, an unreadable emotion in his eyes as he gazes at his son. I watch as tears stream down Mama's cheeks as she pulls Ihsaan in for a hug and cries against his shoulder. I watch as the three of them grasp each other, crying and hurting and comforting one another.

I watch as my broken family becomes a little less broken.

. . .

Assalaamu 'Alaikum (peace be upon you),

OKAY I'M SORRY I know I said something funny was coming up but it's gonna have to wait until the next chapter.

I'm going to be busy with a conference for my internship and the last ten days of Ramadan but I will try publishing the next chapter sometime this week!

As always, thanks for reading!