A Year After Mourning
A year after my mourning period ended, I felt something I hadn’t felt since I was twenty-three: confidence. With a steady job, providing for my son, owning my home, and finally paying off my car through Turo, I felt free. For the first time in years, the weight had lifted.
People said I needed a partner. Many women suggested proposals, but I enjoyed my independence and turned them down without hesitation. Another man to answer to? Another family to bow down to? No thank you. I was finally free from the shackles of South Asian marriage dynamics.
A friend once shared how, after her father died, her mother leaned entirely on her children instead of moving on. That planted a seed of reflection in me — I hadn’t thought about those long-term consequences before.
During that year, my closest friends were relentless. They kept insisting I meet someone. One dear friend — let’s call her Barbie — was especially persistent. I had already heard of the man she was suggesting, and I kept saying no. But one day Barbie called me in tears: his daughter had been diagnosed with cancer.
That pierced me. Without thinking, I reached out to him. I told him how sorry I was, that God had already given him such heavy burdens, and that I had friends in similar situations who might be a support. His reply was short: “thank you.”
Months passed in silence until he suddenly messaged with an update, acknowledging my concern with sincerity. Then a few days later, another message. Then daily.
Eventually, he asked to speak over the phone. I was hesitant — it was 10:30 p.m. my time, and I had just taken my capsule of courage, Ambien. Still, I said yes. His voice was flat, robotic, almost rehearsed. I couldn’t hold back:
“Are you reading off a whiteboard?”
Any other man might have been offended. But he laughed — hard — and said he hadn’t laughed like that in a long time.
Later that week, I messaged him: “I think you are an amazing human, but I am very content with my life right now.” He took the rejection gracefully, like a champion, and told me he understood.
Two weeks later, he reached out again. He asked how I was. I asked about his daughter. The next day, another text. And another. He had decided he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
Eventually, he suggested we meet for coffee. I agreed, expecting nothing more. Coffee, that’s it.
But we plan our lives, and God writes differently. Four months later, after countless conversations, what began as coffee became companionship. And then, an Islamic Nikkah.
#Gratitude#Blessed#SaymashAllah#Alhamdulillah#Nikkah#Bloggerlife