The First Of Seven

Abdul was just three years old when his mother left him with his grandmother to work in a faraway state.

Now, at 13, a sense of longing settled in his chest whenever he saw other children with their mothers.

The absence felt heavier each day, an ache that reminded him of the family he didn’t fully know.

Memories of his father’s invitations tugged at him—those times when he urged Abdul to come and live with him, to meet his half-siblings. But his mother had always refused.

His mother’s reasons were rooted in her own childhood, where life within a polygamous family had been complicated and cruel.

The harshness of her stepmother's treatment left wounds that never fully healed, shadows she hoped to spare Abdul.

“Be patient,” she often told him, her voice laced with love and hidden worry. “When you grow up, you’ll understand.”

But patience was not an easy lesson for a young boy burdened with questions. One evening, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

He picked up his small, worn-out button phone and called his mother. When she answered, he spoke before doubt could silence him. “Mummy, why?”

The question sliced through the distance, and an uneasy silence followed.

He could hear her soft weeping, the way she tried to clear her nose, the crack in her voice when she finally spoke.

“Abdul,” she whispered, her voice as tender as the lullabies she once sang. “No mother ever wants to leave her child.

I had to work, to earn enough to take care of you. When I asked to bring you with me, they said no.

My heart shattered the day I left, and it hasn’t been whole since. I’m so sorry.”

Regret tightened his throat as guilt washed over him. The weight of her sorrow stung deeper than his own longing.

Still, she managed to make him laugh before they hung up, turning the painful call into a bittersweet memory.

Weeks passed, and a Friday evening brought a cool, post-rain stillness.

His grandmother had gone to the nearby market, leaving Abdul alone with strict instructions to lock the door and open it only for her.

He was used to these brief moments of solitude, yet that evening felt different—tense, like an unspoken warning hanging in the air.

A sudden knock shattered the quiet. Abdul’s heart thudded as he stood motionless, listening. The door was thick, solid, with no way to see who was outside.

Minutes ticked by, and then he heard it: “Abdul, my love.” The voice was soft, familiar, impossible. It was his mother’s voice.

Disbelief warred with hope as he stood frozen, fighting the urge to unlatch the door.

He knew what his grandmother would say: “Don’t open the door for anyone but me.” But his hand twitched toward the lock, drawn by the aching familiarity of that voice.

Just as suddenly as it came, the voice was gone, replaced by footsteps and a distant greeting: “Mom, it’s been a while.”

His eyes widened at the second voice—his grandmother’s.

Without another thought, he flung the door open. His heart leaped as he saw them, his mother standing beside his grandmother, framed by the golden light of the setting sun.

Emotion welled up and overflowed as he dashed into his mother’s embrace. It was warmer than any memory, real and complete.

Tears mingled with laughter as he buried his face in her shoulder.

For a moment, it felt like the world had righted itself. His mother’s touch, her voice, the sparkle in her eyes—it was everything he’d missed.

“I missed you so much, Abdul,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple. His grin was so wide it hurt, every tooth showing as he bounced in excitement.

His mother had brought gifts, toys that lit up his face with childlike wonder: a Lego set, a remote-controlled car, a robot toy, and bags of treats—pizza, burgers, cheese balls.

But beneath the joy lay a secret sacrifice he didn’t yet know: his mother had quit her job just to be with him.

The next few months were a blur of adjustments. His mother rented a small shop with her savings and started selling clothes, turning their hope into something tangible.

But business was tough. Many evenings ended with unsold stock and whispered prayers for a single customer to walk in.

Back at home, life had its own trials. His two aunts, both facing their struggles, moved into their grandmother’s house with their children.

The house was divided into two: rented flats in front, and the back rooms where they lived.

Abdul’s mother shared one of those small back rooms with him. Tensions ran high, the air always thick with unspoken arguments.

“Why are you here?” his mother’s voice, sharp with fear, cut through the noise of his thoughts one evening at the shop.

Abdul looked up, startled, as a figure stood in the doorway, casting a long shadow.

The figure moved forward, stepping just inside the shop, and Abdul could finally make out the face of a man he has never seen before.

He wore a dark coat, his eyes cold and piercing, and though he looked calm, there was something unsettling about his presence.

He ignored Abdul's mom’s question, glancing down at Abdul with a slight, eerie smile that made him cling tighter to her arm.

Abdul's mom’s voice was firm now, though he could sense the tremor beneath it. “I told you not to come here.”

The man crossed his arms and replied coolly, “You can’t keep avoiding things forever. Your choices have consequences, and you knew that when you left.”

The words struck like an invisible weight, and Abdul saw his mom’s composure falter for a split second.

Her hand tre