I stood at the checkout counter, relief flooding over me as I placed the all-purpose flour packet down. It was the final item on my shopping list, marking the end of what had felt like a marathon through the bustling aisles of the grocery store. With a mental note to myself to never let us run out of supplies again, I watched as the black American with a gorgeous afro swiftly began scanning the items.
Each beep of the scanner felt like a countdown to the inevitable sticker shock of the total. As the numbers climbed higher and higher, I tried to mask my surprise at the inflated prices, silently acknowledging the relentless onslaught of inflation we were all grappling with. Subhana'Allah, times were tough.
With a resigned sigh, I paid for the groceries, mentally calculating how much I had left in the budget for the rest of the month. Hassan is always randomly sending money to my account but I still don't like to be frivolous in my spending.
Miraculously, I managed to collect all the plastic bags they placed my items in and began the slow, careful journey through the parking lot. Dodging carts and navigating around other shoppers, I finally reached my car. I loaded the groceries into the trunk, arranging them with care to prevent anything from toppling over on the drive home. I was not the smoothest driver.
Seated in the driver's seat, I took a moment to catch my breath before reaching for the ignition key. But just as I was about to start the car, my phone began to ring, interrupting the quiet moment of respite. Glancing down, I saw my father's name flashing on the screen, and a smile involuntarily tugged at my lips. Baba.
Accepting the call, I was greeted by Baba's warm voice, filled with love and concern. "Assalamu Alaykum Habibti," he said cheerfully.
"Wa Alaykum Salam ya Baba, how are you? I miss you so much," I responded, the familiar ache of longing for my parents tugging at my heartstrings.
"Alhamdulilah, alhamdulilah, I can never complain. I miss you too, habibti. How are you and my son Hassan? I hope you guys are faring well?" Baba's words were like a balm to my soul, soothing away the worries and stresses of the day.
"Yes, we're all good, alhamdulilah. How's mommy?" I inquired, the pang of homesickness sharpening as I thought of my mother.
"She's doing-" Baba's voice trailed off, and I heard a rustling sound in the background. Before I could inquire further, a new voice broke through the line.
"Halimah Sadiyah?" It was my mother, her tone teasing yet affectionate.
"Yes, ma," I replied, unable to suppress a giggle at her playful tone.
"So you now call your father but not your ummi? I knew I wasn't your favorite, but at least make it less obvious," she teased, her words laced with mock indignation.
"Shumaya," Baba interjected, his chuckle audible even through the phone.
"But mommy, we spoke a few days ago, and Baba called me!" I protested, the familiar banter bringing a sense of warmth and nostalgia.
"I don't mind the favoritism, just make sure I'm the first to know when you're expecting InshaaAllah," she teased further, her words causing a flush of embarrassment to color my cheeks.
"Ma!" I groaned, though I couldn't help but smile at her playful antics.
"What? It's just a request," she replied innocently, though her mischievous tone betrayed her true intentions.
"Thank you for that, mom, thank you so much for bringing this up," I said sarcastically, shaking my head at her antics.
"You're welcome. By the way, where is my son?" she asked casually, her tone shifting to one of concern.
YOU ARE READING
HALF HER DEEN
Romance𝘈 𝘚𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘏𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘭 𝘓𝘰𝘷𝘦-𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺. • Halimah. Hassan. Their initial encounter was not their first as they had met before, though it did not feel like that in the beginning . Halimah's heart fluttered with the unfamiliar sensation of attract...
