Our Worlds

shopping

Yusuf 

"Darling, wake up! It's almost eleven A.M. We are going to the mall with Sarah and Hajara!" my mom hollered like a battle general announcing war, flinging open my tightly-shut curtains like she was unveiling the Mona Lisa, except I was just a potato in pajamas.

The sunlight smacked me in the face like it had a personal vendetta.

"Ugh, Mom, I could've opened the curtains," I whined weakly.

She snorted like a Disney villain. "Like you ever would."

Touché.

"MOOOM!" I groaned dramatically, yanking my pillow over my head like it was a riot shield. "Can't I get like—one ounce of peace? It's Saturday, for Allah's sake! I literally spent the whole morning reviewing 25th and 26th juz (chapters of the Quran), and then begged Benyamin to test me like it was a Qur'anic Hunger Games. It took me TWO WHOLE HOURS."

Mom didn't care. Not even a flinch of sympathy. She stood there with the same look Pharaoh probably gave Moses—annoyed and not having it.

"Bravo, I'm really proud of you, but hate to say, your future wife awaits. You don't want her waiting, do you?"

"Why do you always care what Hajara thinks?!" I whined with my face covered under the pillow.

She raised an eyebrow. "Because Hajara has standards. And you, apparently, have none."

Touché again. She was handing out verbal L's like Oprah handing out cars.

"By the way," she added, "Benyamin vacuumed the living room, organized the bookshelf, AND made coffee for everyone. He said it's 'just what older brothers deserve.'"

That traitor.

I lay there, eyes wide in betrayal. Benyamin wasn't a brother. He was a productivity cyborg, a fairytale Cinderella of the day. A clean, polite, smiling miniature mom in disguise.

But I had 30 minutes. I could shower, dress, and pretend like I hadn't just tried to emotionally marry my mattress.

Or I could dramatically "trip" and sprain my ankle to avoid the mall.

Before I knew it, mom pulled me out of my thoughts by marching over to my bed and yanking my blanket off like she was unveiling a magic trick.

Ta-da! It's your miserable son!

"B-but Mom I NEED that—"

SWAT.

Right on the arm. I flopped like a soccer player pretending it was a career-ending injury.

"No buts!" she growled, folding my blanket like she was about to donate it to an orphanage. 

"GET UP before I get mad enough to drag you out by the leg like a sack of onions."

I could already imagine the neighbors watching as she dragged me across the floor like, "Wow, that poor boy. Must be a demon."

Honestly, if my mom ran a boot camp, people would come out Olympic-level productive with trauma-induced punctuality.

I peeked out from under the pillow. "What's gonna happen when I get married, huh? You gonna control my life, raise my kids, plan my funeral too?"

"I'll do it all and I'll do it better," she snapped.

"Fine, firstborn will be named 'Shrek'." I announced, earning a glare from mom. 

She stomped toward the door, heels clacking like gunshots. "We're leaving in thirty minutes. Hajara better not see you looking like a squashed tomato. Benyamin's already ready downstairs! Learn from him, even though he's younger than you!"