On Monday morning, Hussein had insisted on coming with his wife Maryam to Lois Hole Hospital for Women, but she wanted to go alone. After five long years of trying, it was still “just them two.” Of course, everyone knew that she was the one lacking. Their silent glances and careful questions said as much during every family gathering they attended together. “Habo, are you pregnant yet?” the aunties asked and she would simply shake her head. Then a quick succession of prayers would follow urging her and her husband to keep trying.
The paper crinkled beneath Maryam as she shifted on the examination table. When Doctor Daniel entered the room, Maryam searched her face, hoping to decipher the news before it was spoken. Like all medical professionals, Dr. Daniel wore a shield of practiced neutrality. She wondered if they taught this skill in medical school, or if the detachment came with years in the hospital. She imagined doctors buttoning up their emotions inside their white coats each morning.
Maryam straightened her shoulders and tugged the fabric of her hijab tighter around her neck. “Dr. Daniel, tell me. I'm ready,” she said.
Dr. Daniel's chair creaked as she leaned forward, her hands clasped together as if in supplication. “Maryam, I'm sorry, I wish I had better news.”
Maryam repeated the two words slowly as she dug her short fingernails into the side of her thigh. “Unexplained infertility.” She was twenty-eight-years-old.
Dr. Daniel's voice had become a distant hum, medical terms floating past with the same far-off echo as Friday prayers. Maryam almost winced with relief when she heard her Aabo's voice as if he was sitting right beside her. “Maryam, say Bismillah and face your fears head-on. A problem can only be seized by its head, not its tail.”
Her father was speaking in proverbs again and this was one of his favorites. Of course, he would remind her to be strong. Easy for him to say, Maryam thought. He had been born a man, free from the relentless scrutiny women endured. He would never be the subject of hushed whispers, nor would he know the quiet agony of lying next to a husband, fearing that he might one day seek another wife. He had never counted the days of a cycle with trepidation nor died slowly die each month at the sight of his own blood. These were things he could never understand—things only a mother would. And Maryam had never known hers. She died when Maryam was two days old.
“Why me?” she asked as she held herself and rocked back and forth. “I’ve done everything. What else does Allah want from me?”
Dr. Daniel paused before answering. “It's hard to say why, but perhaps we can talk about IVF or surrogacy?”
The answer fell flat. What good were clinical solutions against what was a spiritual trial? Maryam eased herself off the examining table and paced from the desk to the window and back again while the doctor gathered pamphlets about the supposed options available to her. She was on the verge of thirty, and each step reminded her that she was running out of time. “Hurry, you won’t be young for that much longer,” explained her mother-in-law’s best friend during their first meeting. Another auntie encouraged her during a chance run-in at a local mall. “Habo, have your kids back-to-back! It’s easier that way.”
She dressed quickly and stuffed the pamphlets into her purse with the intention of discarding them before she got home to Hussein. The automatic doors to the hospital hissed open. It was a warm afternoon in Edmonton, unusual for the month of May. She wasn’t calmed by the scent of cherry blossoms in full bloom or the sound of children’s laughter this time around. She walked a bit further into the courtyard and found a seat on a bench next to a woman feeding a finicky child whose lips were tightly sealed. Maryam took one of pamphlets from her purse and stared at it.
“The doctors here are miracle workers,” she said. “They gave us little Timmy after years of trying. But he can be a handful.” She smiled and spooned green peas into her mouth.
Maryam turned and stared at the woman who sounded like a walking billboard for IVF. Then she looked at the little boy and her heart splintered. “I guess miracles are meant for some,” she said. “Maybe me and my defective womb are just cursed.” She walked away before the woman could respond, her steps quickening as she left the courtyard. Seeing all these mothers and their children reminded her that she was a failure. Reminded her of the baby she lost at six months. She felt like she was coming undone. Without thinking, she reached up and found the familiar pin of her hijab.
She unwrapped it.
The fabric slid away until it draped limply around her neck. Her hair tumbled free, thick and wild, a playground of curls dancing in the wind. In her recollection, she had never been bareheaded in public before, and yet, in that moment, the weight of the cloth was now simply unbearable, as heavy as all the expectations she'd failed to meet. Rage bubbled up from her toes to her throat and it took everything in her not to just scream right there like a mad woman.
At the bus stop, she caught sight of her reflection in the smudged glass of the closed door and it frightened her. The woman staring back was a complete stranger. When she entered the number 8 express bus, it was packed, and she was barely able to find a seat. Ever since the construction of the main train started last year, all the buses downtown were always full. Maryam moved slowly to the back, passing all the pregnant women and mothers with strollers in the front—a sight that now infuriated her. “Can you please move your stroller out of the aisle?” she said as she inched past. Maryam preferred window seats, but they were all taken. So, she sat next to an older man absorbed in his book. She rested her hand on her stomach and tried to find the right words to say it. Just as her body gave way to the weight of the day, someone tapped her shoulder from behind.
“Maryam? Is that you? I hardly recognized you without your hijab.”
Of all the people from Westmount Public High School, it had to be Sarah. Sarah was the English teacher who always asked too many questions and, who noticed everything. She was the epiphany of a theater kid all grown up.
“Everyone at school misses you, especially the students. I thought you were coming back next month.
Maryam started rubbing her stomach—a comforting habit she'd developed during her last failed pregnancy. She desperately missed her work at the school, but she wasn’t in a hurry to get back. “Yes... I know... I also miss all of them. She watched Sara’s eyes move to her stomach.
“OMG Maryam, are you pregnant again?” Sarah said, her eyes darting to where Maryam's hand rested on her stomach to the hospital still visible through the window. The last time she saw Sarah was the day after her baby shower in the teachers' lounge. Her locker had been decorated with pink and blue streamers. The cramping had started during her first counseling session with a tenth grader navigating a difficult home life situation. An hour later she was being wheeled to an ambulance and by the afternoon the baby was gone. Sarah had held her hand until the ambulance doors closed, promising that everything would be okay.
Maryam's first instinct was to look around like a caged animal, desperate for escape. But instead, she took a deep breath and met Sarah's eyes. “I just left the doctor’s office. It turns out I can't have children.” There was also a strange relief in saying it out loud.
Sarah's face flushed. “Oh, Maryam, I'm so sorry. I kept checking on your students while you were gone. That group of Somali girls you counseled still asks about you.”
“It's fine,” Maryam said. “You couldn't have known. How is Amina doing? Her parents' divorce was getting so difficult when I left.”
“She's managing. But honestly, no one connects with those girls like you did. Principal Norris is talking about splitting your counseling position if you don't return. Budget cuts.” Sarah said with an eye roll.
Despite herself, Maryam felt a pang of responsibility. For three years, she'd guided those girls through family conflicts, friendship dramas, and cultural clashes—a different kind of mothering. Now she was abandoning them too.
“I've thought about coming back,” Maryam admitted. “But every time I imagine walking through those school doors...”
“The baby shower,” Sarah said softly.
“Yes. And returning without any baby pictures or the glow and fatigue of new motherhood bliss felt impossible.” Maryam twisted her wedding ring realizing she said too much and immediately regretted it. She reached out and squeezed Sarah's hand briefly. “Please don't tell anyone what I told you. Not even “Chuk Norris.” They both chuckled at the silly nickname they had for the principal.
As she stepped off the bus into the familiar neighborhood, Maryam realized she was only two stops from home. As she walked the few blocks home, Maryam rehearsed how she would tell Hussein. Simple words. Direct. “I can't have children.”
The apartment was exactly as she left it. As much as she tried, it lacked that cozy lived-in feeling she witnessed in the homes of other women. Her father taught her to be neat and organized, but shared nothing about aesthetic or color theory.
The adhan of the mid-day prayer echoed through the empty space, the muezzin's voice carrying the weight of centuries of faith. Mechanically, she performed her ablutions - the water cools against her wrists, her face, her feet. But as she moved onto the prayer mat, a breeze from the half-open window grazed her neck, a stark reminder of her uncovered head. Shame washed over her and left her shivering. Her hijab hung near the door out of reach. She sank to the floor feeling the weight of it all. She put her head on the floor in prostration as a final surrender to her fate. “Why have You abandoned me?” she whispered. A minute later, she caught herself and muttered hurried prayers of forgiveness, horrified by all her doubts and anger. She didn’t hear the front door open or Hussein’s cheerful Salam that always made her heart leap.
He rushed to her side, forever worried. “Maryam, what's wrong?”
She raised her head and wiped her face dry. “Oh, I didn’t even hear you. How was your day?”
“Maryam, look at me.”
She tried but could not face him. She threw herself at him. “Just hold me, I need a strong hug.” She murmured in his ear. She inhaled his scent deeply suspiciously investigating with her nostrils for any foreign fragrance.
“Maryam, you're scaring me! Should I call your father?” Hussein pulled her off his chest to see her face.
At the mention of her father, something snapped back into place, like the resetting of a dislocated joint. Her eyes fluttered open, the world started coming back into sharp focus.
“Don't be ridiculous, Hussein,” she murmured, forcing a weak smile. “My dad has better things to do than pick me off the floor. I'm fine. I'm just tired.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but it was easier than the truth.
Hussein rose from the floor and started to remove his work overalls, which he usually did at the front door. He worked long hours as a foreman on a pipeline construction site two hours from the city. Hussein was the only Somali and Muslim man in his position and that frustrated him. He worked hard and came home tired, but he was never without a smile or a cheerful greeting. He took his time undressing, watching her closely as he put his work clothes on the coffee table. She could see questions forming as he opened his mouth. But each time he chose silence until he was done. Then he turned and asked the question, and it hung in the air between them for a beat or two.
“Then why are you curled up like that on the prayer mat with no hijab?”
She knew what he meant. After the loss, she would lay exactly like this for months. Maryam lifted herself off the prayer mat and turned to look him in the face. Hussein had grown up with five siblings, his house was full of chaos and laughter and life, in stark contrast to the silence and order she had known. She remembered when he first took her to his family's Eid celebration, and she had watched him with his little nieces and nephews, spinning them until they squealed with delight, teaching them how to make wudu with infinite patience. “You'll be an amazing father,” his sister had said, nudging Maryam with a knowing smile. And Maryam had believed it with her whole heart.
“Hussein, the doctor said… I can’t… I mean …I am pregnant.”
Her shoulders sank and turned away quickly moving towards the kitchen to escape her deception.
Hussein jumped with joy and stopped her mid stride, wrapping his arms around her waist and chest. “Masha Allah, surely with every hardship comes ease.”
Maryam wilted, but held the crooked smile in place. She reluctantly pulled herself from his arms. “Yes Alhamdulilah, anyway, are you hungry? I am famished!”
Hussein’ voice followed her into the kitchen. “Maryam, wait! What else did the doctor say? You sure everything will be alright this time?
Maryam froze; her hand was suspended over the cabinet handle. Just for a second, sharp words gathered at the back of her throat—words that would make this his burden too, the rage she felt in the courtyard returned in full force. But she knew better so she swallowed it back down.
“Nothing,” she said, her voice artificially light. “She will continue to monitor me very closely.” The lie was acid on her tongue.
“Alhamdulillah,” he sighed.
Mariam imagined relief washing over him while the shame burned her alive from the inside out. She reached for ice and started chewing with violence, the cold crystalline crunch drowning out her thoughts. She busied herself with cooking supper while Hussein went upstairs to wash the dirt and day away. He said that he always felt like a new person after a shower. She wished it were that easy for her. The day clung to her skin, and she felt old. She took her anger out on the meat. Each chop of the knife was precise and purposeful, and she cooked a beautiful meal because that much she could do. That much she could control. She set the table for two, her eyes watching the other empty chairs surrounding the table. Empty, yet somehow occupied. They were never truly alone, the ghosts of their children always hung around the air, thick as evening bakhoor.
She was surprised at how easy the lie tripped off her lips when she had madly rehearsed the truth. But he was also lying to her. Two weeks ago, when she was cleaning their bedroom, and he was in the shower she checked his phone as it buzzed with a new text message. The name on the screen was not one she knew so she unlocked the phone and read the text thread:
“Hi Hussein, what did you think of that book I recommended.”
“Salam Leila, you know I can’t remember the last time I read a book from start to finish but it was a quick read.”
“Right maybe we can discuss next time we bump into one another.”
“Yeah maybe.”
Maryam wanted to know who this girl was and why her husband was chatting with her so casually? Nothing inappropriate was said but she knew what this conversation meant. The Hussein of two years ago would never ever have another girl that was not family on his phone.
Now watching him texting, she felt a stab of vindication. Here she was, carrying the burden of her diagnosis alone, while he casually messaged other women. Yet when he looked up and smiled at her, guilt crashed over her. She had now outdone him by living the bigger lie.
He looked up from his phone and said: “I’ve always loved the name Eman if it’s girl for our unwavering faith, and perhaps Nur for the light of a son?”
Maryam umm’ed and nodded absently, biting her lips. They agreed to wait until Maryam was further along before telling the family the news. That night, Maryam's lie lay between them in bed like a third person, taking up space, demanding attention.
Two weeks later, she found herself more committed to the deception than ever. Before leaving for a dinner party celebrating his cousin’s graduation, she chose to wear a bigger abaya so no one could inspect her curves or lack thereof. As always Maryam watched Hussein with all children, chasing his little niece and nephews them from room to room. Laughter filled the house.
An hour later, she overheard Hussein and his mother talking. “You sure you don’t want to consider my friend’s daughter Leila? She just graduated from university and all her sisters have kids. What happened was tragic but perhaps it was for the best.” Hussein shook his head and tried to shush her. “You have been patient enough,” she said as she hit the countertop.
Leila from the text. The name stung like a slap. His mother was already introducing him to her replacement. She coughed once before she walked into the kitchen carrying a tray of dates. Hussein looked at his wife and wondered how much she had overheard. What Hussein couldn't see was how clearly Maryam could read his mother. Though Maryam never mentioned it to him, she noticed every subtle sign. His mother was nice enough to her and she was always cordial whenever she called, but her left eye would twitch up whenever she brought up children to them.
In mid eye twitch, Hussein grabbed Maryam by the hand, and she could tell he was on the verge of sharing the news.
But before he could say anything Maryam whispered, “not now Hussein, let me talk to her first.” crestfallen but understanding he solemnly walked into the living-room. Alone in the kitchen, Maryam approached her mother-in-law. The older woman was arranging the dates on a platter, her movements efficient and practiced. “Let me help,” Maryam said, reaching for a knife to slice the remaining dates.
“I've been doing this since before you were born,” her mother-in-law said, not unkindly.
Maryam put down the knife, but didn't move away. “You've never thought I was good enough for Hussein, have you?”
The blunt question hung in the air. Her mother-in-law's hands stilled. “Hussein is my only son,” she said finally. “I wanted someone exceptional for him.”
“And I'm not exceptional?”
The older woman looked at her directly. “You haven't been able to give him children. In our culture—”
“And in our faith,” Maryam interrupted, her voice rising, “a woman is more than a walking womb. Or has everyone forgotten that?”
Hussein's mother stepped back in shock. A tense silence filled the kitchen and Hussein felt it immediately.
“Hoyo, Maryam is pregnant. I am sure she did not mean any disrespect. She is of course worried and stressed because of what happened before.”
His mother forced her stare to soften and embraced her reluctantly while patting her back. “How many weeks are you now? We will of course make duaa for healthy birth this time.” She said this last part with a hint of accusation only Maryam could hear.
“Umm six weeks tomorrow,” said Mariam still fuming. Her hand unconsciously touching her flat stomach beneath her loose dress. The lie felt both foreign and familiar now.
This was single moment where she felt victorious as her mother-in-law was rendered silent. Hussein had also erased all traces of “Leila” from his phone since she told him. It seemed her fictious child was the only one she could count on.
The lie grew with each passing week like a fetus safely secure in place. As May gave way to June, Maryam swelled right along with it, bloated with anxiety. She was sure she would soon have to confess, but something strange happened. Her body began to conform to the lie as if it was finally ready to be on the same team. She missed her expected period. She felt nauseous in the mornings. She convinced herself that maybe, just maybe, a miracle had occurred. But
Consumed with the thought of being found out Maryam began secretly googling “pregnancy week 6” and then “pregnancy week 7” as the days turned into weeks, carefully noting what she should be experiencing, what size the nonexistent baby should be, when the morning sickness might end. She had been through this before but the loss had erased those details.
But it turned out she didn't need to do much; it seemed as if every little step was evidence for Hussein. She choked on her breakfast, and he took that for morning sickness. She recoiled at the whiff of an old cologne she had hidden, which he somehow unearthed from her drawer, and he took that for pregnancy nausea. Was she merely a vessel he was just waiting to fill, an empty suitcase without purpose until carrying their belongings?
“Should I take the day off today?”
“No no don’t worry. I am fine.”
“Well, I’ve booked another appointment with Dr. Daniel in two weeks.”
“What why? I am not due for another appointment for another month.” Maryam looked panicked but forced herself to seem unfazed.
“Well, I want to hear the heartbeat, I want to be involved in every step this time.”
The joy in Hussein eyes was unbearable. She was drowning and suffocating, but she couldn’t see a way out.
That night, sleeping next to Hussein was the most exquisite form of torture she had ever endured. As he draped his arms around her, memories flooded back unbidden. She remembered the first time she saw him in their university's Muslim Student Association meeting those arms carrying boxes of donations for the refugee drive, muscles flexing beneath his rolled-up sleeves. Even then, before she knew his gentle heart, his arms had caught her attention. She would later tease him that his arms were made for warm embraces, they offered the comfort of a heated blanket on a cold winter morning. These arms had been her refuge. But now the tenderness of his touch was both comfort and accusation.
Maryam wondered why he even chose her. She asked him once and he said that he liked how practical she was. “You never waste time with frivolous things like other girls I have talked to.” She wondered if he thought the same of Leila. Deep down she knew he meant that as a compliment, but that fact scratched raw the deepest wound embedded in the fabric of her being. It was the scent that never allowed her to be at ease with other girls. The barricade that stood between her and the sisterhood she craved.
The next morning, she cancelled the Dr’s appointment Hussein booked while frantically thinking of what to tell him next week when the appointment date arrived. Keeping track of her supposed pregnancy timeline had become a part-time job.
Hussein had made it a habit of taking her to his family's house every other night for supper. She wasn't sure if he thought she was too sick to cook or if his mother was the one who wanted to keep an eye on her. Tonight's dinner was a particularly excruciating inquisition. Worse still, she had to conceal her period, which had returned with a vengeful timing.
“How far along are you now?” her mother-in-law asked, eyes never leaving Maryam's face.
Maryam's mind raced. What had she told Hussein last night? “Almost eight weeks,” she answered, the number she'd rehearsed earlier. Hussein looked up from his plate.
“Eight? I thought you were at ten weeks now.”
Maryam's heart stuttered. “Right, ten,” she corrected quickly. “I meant ten. I'm just tired today.”
Hussein's mother narrowed her eyes. “Last week when we spoke on the phone, you told me you were seven weeks along.”
“Did I?” Maryam laughed too brightly. “Pregnancy brain, I guess. I meant eight then. And ten now.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Hussein's sister broke it with a chuckle. “Maybe you should start writing these things down, Maryam. We would also love to come to any appointments you have coming up. After what happened last time, we're all counting every week with you.” The reminder of her miscarriage hung in the air, making the lie unbearable to contain. Hussein reached for her hand under the table and squeezed it reassuringly. The tenderness of the gesture made her want to disappear into the floor.
That night Maryam looked up “fake pregnancy” bellies meant for Halloween. She added it to the cart and was so close to hitting the purchase button, but the shame paralyzed her fingers and she slammed the laptop shut.
The next morning, Hussein had hung a large monthly calendar in the kitchen, the upcoming doctor's appointment he had scheduled circled in bright red marker. Maryam stared at it while making breakfast. She had always hated red—the color of her monthly disappointments, of negative pregnancy test lines. Now here it was again, that crimson circle growing more ominous each day, a glaring countdown to when her deception would finally collapse.
The certified letter arrived on a Tuesday, the Teacher’s union logo stark in the corner. Maryam knew what it contained before she even opened it. After a full year of extended leave, they were demanding a return date. She sat at the kitchen table, reading the formal language with trepidation “Please advise us of your decision by the end of this month.”
She closed her eyes and imagined her office—warm and inviting thanks to its previous occupant, full of plants and motivational quotes. The only addition Maryam had made was the large fluffy carpet in the corner facing north for her daily prayers. Teenagers gravitated to her space for the large bean bags they could sink into, the kind that would swallow them whole. The green one in the corner, underneath the poster of a cat who sees itself in the water as a tiger with the words "mindset is everything" was Samuel's favorite spot. He was struggling with the absence of his father. “Mom says he is in prison, but I think he is just away on another adventure.” She had been counselling him for a few months and his mother wasn’t the easiest person to deal with, “I know it’s hard, what about the basketball team. Did your mom finally agree to let you join?” Maryam wished she could shield all her kids from these heartaches. “She wants me to get a job. Says I am the man of the house now.” It was moments like these where she realized how hard her father worked to keep her childhood unburdened and peaceful.
She reminded herself that she'd been good at her job—exceptional even. She had started an after-school reading and mentoring program for young Somali girls who reminded her of herself at that age. She had plans to establish peer mentoring throughout the school, a vision Principal Norris had enthusiastically supported with funding. Her students needed her guidance, and she had drawn strength from their resilience. She could sense how desperately they waited for her return. Now she was just Maryam the failed mother, Maryam the liar.
“How are my two favorite people today?” Hussein asked as he kissed the top of her head.
“Fine,” she said. “Just tired.”
He looked at her expression. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” Maryam said. I was just thinking about... work.”
“You don't need to worry about that anymore,” Hussein said, his hand brushing what he thought was their growing child. “I'm taking that promotion. The hours will be longer, but the pay is much better. You can stay home until the baby is born. In fact, I would prefer if you didn’t return to work, my mom was a stay-at-home mother, and I think it would be better for our child and others to come Insha Allah.”
Maryam was dumbfounded at how her whole life had just derailed in such a short period of time. The lie had taken over life.
The next morning, she was surprised by an unexpected visit by her father. He arrived carrying two packages wrapped in brown paper. Maryam invited him in, unsure what to expect. They sat in the living room; she wondered if Hussein had called him with the news. Finally, he deposited the packages on the bare mahogany coffee table.
He cleared his throat and began, “Your mother,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, “she would have wanted you to have these one day.” His weathered hands trembled as he unwrapped first the Quran, its leather cover worn soft with years of devotion. Maryam saw faded pencil marks in the margins—her mother's handwriting. “She used to read this every night," her father said, his finger tracing a marked passage. "When she was carrying you, she would read aloud so you could hear the verses even before birth.”
“Did she mark all these passages herself?" Maryam asked, running her fingers over the faded pencil marks. She'd rarely asked about her mother - it had always seemed to pain her father too much.
“Every single one,” he replied. “She was methodical that way. Said the Quran spoke to her differently each reading.”
Maryam hesitated, then asked the question she'd carried since childhood. “What was she like, Aabo?”
Her father looked startled, as if the question had never occurred to him. “She was... determined. A quiet force that could move mountains. Quick to laugh, quicker to argue.
“You never talk about her,” Maryam said, unable to keep the accusation from her voice. “All these years, and I've had to imagine her.”
“It was painful,” he said simply.
“For me too,” Maryam said. “Did you ever think of that?” The words came out harsher than she intended.
Her father just nodded. This was the father who had raised her alone, who had learned to braid her hair through trial and error, who had attended every parent event at school without complaint. This was the man who had carried his own grief silently so she could have a childhood unburdened by further tragedy. How many years she had blamed him for her unhappiness while hers was all he cared about.
After a few minutes, he unwrapped a tiny white onesie embroidered with golden threads spelling out “My First Ramadan. She bought this when she was carrying you,” he said, smoothing the fabric with careful fingers. He cleared his throat, and for the first time, Maryam saw the depth of his loss clearly. “She never got to see you wear it. But perhaps soon.” He looked at her belly, hope and joy illuminating his eyes in a way she had rarely seen. That’s when she knew Hussein told him.
“What if I never have a child, Aabo?" the words hurt as they exited her lips.
Her father reached for her hand and let the silence linger before finally saying, “God always makes a way. Don’t worry this time will be different Insha Allah. I've waited so long to see my grandchild wear this.” His voice cracked slightly. “Your mother would have been such a wonderful grandmother.”
The weight of both gifts from her father felt impossible to bear—not just her mother's Quran and the onesie, but the crushing expectations they represented.
That night, sleep danced beyond her reach. She opened the Quran randomly, a habit her father had always gently criticized— “Allah's words aren't a magic trick, Maryam.” But today, her fingers found Surah Ad-Duha, and the verses flowed into her consciousness:
"By the morning brightness, and by the night when it grows still... Your Lord has not forsaken you, nor does He hate you..." (93:1-3)
Her breath caught as she studied the pages, the revelations remaining clear, eternal. Her mother had underlined these verses, the pen marks faded but visible, as footprints in old sand. She imagined her mother's voice reciting the verses with her, and for the first time in weeks, a stillness settled over Maryam's restless mind.
"And the future will be better for you than the past..." (93:4)
The dreaded doctor's appointment dawned on a breezy Friday, twelve weeks into Maryam's elaborate deception. For the first time since the lie, Maryam woke up 5 mins before the predawn prayer alarm, she moved methodically and reached for her hijab without hesitation. She prayed with fervour and despair.
“Ya, Allah help me find a way out” she kept repeating.
As she got ready for the congregational Friday prayer, she stood in the mirror of the front entry pinning her hijab in place. The fabric of her hijab enveloped her different today, lighter somehow, as she wrapped it carefully around her head. It settled perfectly. As she was about to leave, she noticed the note Hussein left on a post it near the door:
“I will pick you up from the Mosque and we can head together to the appointment.”
She couldn’t hide any longer.
The mosque was already filling with women when she arrived for Jumu'ah prayer. She found a spot near the back, where the sunlight streaming through the high windows created patches of warmth on the carpet. The imam's voice carried through the speakers, speaking about tawbah – the beauty of return to Allah.
“Allah loves those who turn back to Him,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “In every moment of darkness, He leaves a door open for return.”
A movement beside her caught her attention, a woman settling onto the carpet, a baby boy cradled in her arms. When their eyes met, the woman smiled.
“Would you mind holding him?” she whispered. “I need to use the bathroom quickly.”
Before Maryam could refuse, the warm weight of the baby was in her arms. His small body radiated trust and innocence. The scent of milk and cocoa butter filled her senses, and oceans moved within her. She had imagined this so many times, holding her own child, feeling this weight, this warmth. The baby shifted in his sleep, his hand finding the edge of her hijab, and something in her chest both broke and healed at once. When the mother returned, she sat close to Maryam, her eyes soft with understanding.
“He's my miracle,” she said quietly, taking him back. “Ten years we waited for him. Ten years of tests, tears, and prayers. And then, when I had finally accepted Allah's plan, He blessed us in His own time.”
“He's beautiful,” Maryam whispered, a lump in her throat.
The imam's voice rose in the background, clear and resonant through the speakers. “Remember, my dear brothers and sisters,” he said, his words flowing like a gentle stream.
“When we stumble—and we all stumble—Allah does not wait for us with anger, but with open arms. His forgiveness is not reluctant; it is eager. It races toward the repentant heart faster than a mother rushes to her crying child.”
The sermon landed like rain on parched soil for Maryam. A mother rushing to her child—an image that both ached and healed.
“And so,” the imam continued, “do not delay your return to Him out of shame or fear. For every step you take toward Allah, He takes many more toward you.”
Maryam hands found her mother's Quran in her bag, its leather worn smooth by years of searching, years of faith. The baby beside her cooed softly in his sleep. Her fingers traced the gold embroidery of her hijab's edge with ease. The truth might shatter everything she held dear, but holding onto the lie was shattering her from within.
As the congregation rose for prayer, Maryam felt something shift inside her, a path finally revealing itself. Perhaps this was what the imam meant by return, not a grand gesture, but a quiet decision to step into the light, whatever it might lead. On her way out, when the elderly lady handed her the platter of dates, Maryam took one and smiled remembering another of her father’s favourite proverb: There is a bone in every date; there is something hard in everything sweet.
As she searched for her shoes, a gentle hand grabbed her hers and turned her around. It was the mother from the prayer section with her baby now wide-awake bouncing on her hip.
"My name is Eman. I run a Tadabur – contemplation class for women every Saturday evening here at the Masjid. Join us, we have a great circle of sisters."
She replaced her hand with a pamphlet with all the details, her eyes warm with an invitation that asked for nothing in return. Maryam smiled and nodded as she delicately folded the pamphlet in her purse.
She exited the Masjid to find a quiet rain beginning, droplets catching the afternoon light like ascending prayers. Rain on a Friday was a good omen, her father always said:
“Allah's mercy descending and nourishing the world”.
She began to race to the bus shelter to wait for Hussein. Her hijab stood perfectly in place despite the weather. She spotted Hussein in their car across the street.
Maryam looked both ways before crossing the street. Whatever storm came after her confession, they would weather it together, or apart, but she could no longer hide in the shadow of a lie. She cradled her stomach one last time.
“Insha Allah one day,” she whispered.
In the car, she turned to her husband. “Hussein I need to tell you something. I am sorry it took me this long to say it.”
Hussein's smile faded as he studied her face. He turned off the engine and shifted in his seat to face her fully, his eyes both concerned and questioning. “What is it, Maryam?” he asked, his hand reaching for hers almost instinctively.
Maryam took a deep breath began just like her father taught her. “Bismillah.”
Contributor Notes
Rahma Rodaah is an award-winning Somali-Canadian author who writes for both children and adults, championing diversity across genres. Inspired by her immigrant experience, she crafts stories that center Black and Muslim characters, bridging the representation gap in literature. Her body of work includes indie-published titles like Muhiima's Quest and Little Brother For Sale, as well as traditionally published books such as Dear Black Child (2022) and Dear Muslim Child (2024), both of which celebrate identity, joy, and belonging.
Rahma’s debut short story for adults, “The Bone In The Dates,” marks her expansion into literary fiction for a wider audience.
Beyond writing, she serves on the TELUS Local Content Community Advisory Board and facilitates creative writing programs for middle-grade students in public schools. As a book and publishing coach, she supports emerging authors in developing strong, cohesive author brands. Through her storytelling and mentorship, Rahma continues to advocate for authentic, diverse narratives that reflect the richness of lived experiences.
