The Rich Life

19

I breathed in the fresh air of Home. London. Even though it was September, it was chucking it down. Classic weather. I wanted to cry in joy, for stepping down my street, no longer exiled but wanted. If my heart didn't feel so numb and I didn't feel so utterly devastated and drained. The paps swarmed me at the airport. There I told them that yes, I truly was Hassan Khan's daughter, I preferred being called Amara, rather than Zahra, which was the name my family called me by (complete lie of course), and that I had broken off my engagement to Adam Dervishi. They were in shock, but I held my head high, steely resolve and my father's love giving me strength.

I stepped through the doors. Dad was waiting there, with one of my nephews next to him, chubby and adorable. He ran on his little legs, where I swept him into my arms.

"Khalah (aunt) Zahra! Khalah Zahra! I missed you," He cried in his babyish lisp. I had missed out on a big portion of his life and I'm surprised he still remembers me.

"I missed you too Mehmed! Look how big you are," I pinched his cheeks and he giggled. I let him gently on the ground, where he ran off to probably play with some toys. I turned to my Dad. I didn't know what to say to him and he had aged considerably. His hair had gone from black to silver in the space of just a year. He had always been such a powerful and fearsome man in my life but life was wearing him out.

The atmosphere of the house was quiet. I couldn't hear my sisters-in-law or my brothers. Nor my nephews and nieces, who would usually be buzzing around childish joy. I couldn't hear Mum's complaining either. It was as if the weight of the world had crushed my family. Everything was so dull and unanimated, except for Mehmed who filled the room with his laughs.

"Where's Ammi (Mum)?"

"She died. 4 months after you left. A heart attack," He said. His gaze was stony, but I could tell he was consumed by sorrow. My main tormentor, my mother, was gone. I inhaled sharply, trying to grasp what I should say. I settled for an arabic saying.

"Inna lilahi wa Innailayhi raji'un (Verily we belong to God and verily do we return to him),"

"Ah well. Her health was always failing,"

She was only 44. I struggled with how to feel. I definitely didn't feel that sad. But I didn't feel happy either. More along the lines of burdened. He showed me back to my room and I took a shower, washing off the tiredness, sweat, tears and jet lag. Not even a hundred showers could get me clean from Adam's touch off my body. I wanted an armour to save me from the gossip that was going to happen when I step downstairs. Because there was nothing worse than being a vulnerable girl in my world.

I braced myself, for the shit show that was coming. Family had started trickling in, peering to get a look at the SECOND girl who had run away. They asked me, where I had been. Nowhere was my reply. They wouldn't have kept up with tabloids anyways. I wanted to melt away, back as a lesser member of the family once more. I didn't want to tell any of them about how much wealth I had amassed nor the fact I am engaged. WAS engaged. And I felt shame as my father tried kicking them out of the house, trying to give me space. The door slammed.

Asif. My eldest brother had swaggered in, wanting to see what the commotion was. He paused when he saw me, a look of immense fury filling his face.

"Tu kya kar rahi hai Idhar? (What are you doing here?) LEAVE!" I was startled, but no longer afraid. My brothers didn't scare me anymore. I had dealt with worse people. Dad said his last goodbyes to our family and returned to the room. Asif' eyes were burning hatred into me. I met his eyes, not blinking.

"I brought her home. We don't need your two pence worth. Stay quiet," This was the Father I knew. Strong and determined, refusing to bend to anyone.