Our Worlds

Surprise

Yusuf 

It's been a few days since The Incident at the mall, and frankly, I haven't known peace since.

There I was—hair on point, hoodie crisp, just trying to buy a six-dollar bubble tea like any other devastatingly attractive teenage boy—when I saw her.

Hajara.

And not just saw her—no, that would've been too easy. Too normal.

She was hugging my mom.

My actual mother.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "So what? It's just a hug."

Wrong. This wasn't your average auntie side-hug with a modest three-inch halal gap. This was a full-on, emotionally nourishing embrace. Like the kind of hug people give when they've just reunited after escaping a war zone or binge-watched a Turkish drama together.

And here's the kicker: my mom has never introduced me to Hajara.

Not once. Not even a "Oh, that's Hajara, she volunteers at the masjid" or "She's the girl that blabbed her head off at the clinic." Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

But clearly, they know each other. And not in a "we once met at a bake sale" kind of way. No, this was we've-had-deep-chats-about-life-and-trauma-over-coffee kind of energy.

"She's probably just a patient," I try consoling myself, "Or maybe Mom helped her during a free clinic or... I don't know, maybe they bonded over how amazing I am."

But the hug said otherwise. That hug had backstory.

But then again... Mom's life is chaotic. Like, overly chaotic.

She's either running to her night shift, calling three people at once, losing her ID badge again, or meal-prepping food despite us being, objectively, a family of four. She once sent my school lunch in a pill organizer because she couldn't find any clean Tupperware. I had fried rice in the Tuesday-Saturday compartments and a samosa in the emergency aspirin slot.

My mom's a nurse—your classic cardigan-wearing, bandage-in-the-purse, over-feeds-everyone type of lady. She spends her days helping people and trying to "casually" bring up marriage in conversations that have nothing to do with marriage.

So yeah. Her forgetting to mention one girl—even one as suspiciously pretty and mysteriously huggy as Hajara—isn't the biggest stretch. It wouldn't be the first time she forgot something important.

She once forgot me at the masjid when I was little. True story. Eid prayer. Walked right out chatting with some aunty about cholesterol meds. I was standing by the shoe rack like a lost sandal. So yeah... maybe Hajara just slipped through the chaos.

If you hadn't known, Mom has one sister—my Aunt Fatima. The complete opposite of her. She's like if contour and sass were a person. She's both my mom's younger sister and my dad's brother's wife. So, double aunt? Yes, we keep it in the family. Mashallah, very efficient.

Aunt Fatima is a makeup artist, owns seven ring lights, and once tried to contour my face "just to see what you'd look like as a model." I haven't known peace since.

Anyway, I didn't bring up Hajara and The Mall Incident with mom yet. Because I value my sanity. If I so much as mention a girl's name around my mom, she whips out a wedding Pinterest board faster than you can say "astaghfirullah."

"Bro, Mom's calling us down," Benyamin interrupted my thoughts, poking his head into my room like a squirrel in a hoodie.

"Tell her I'm coming," I said, tossing my glass tablet onto my bed in an unnecessarily dramatic fashion. I stood up, fixed my hair (again), and tried to wipe the expression of emotional devastation off my face.