Respect Is Earned

The morning sunlight filtered through the small window, casting golden streaks across the modest kitchen where Karim sat, sipping his freshly brewed coffee. He was dressed in his police uniform, polished and pristine, a stark contrast to the worn surroundings of their home. His wife moved around the room quietly, her face a mask of irritation, her steps heavier than usual.

Karim noticed her mood almost immediately. Smiling, he set his cup down and leaned back in his chair. "Good morning, beautiful," he said warmly, his voice soft and teasing. "How's my little one doing inside there?" He reached out to touch her stomach gently, the thought of their unborn child bringing a brief flicker of lightness to the dim atmosphere.

She glanced down at his hand but didn't smile. "I'm fine," she said curtly, her voice lacking its usual warmth. "We're fine."

Karim raised an eyebrow, his playful demeanor giving way to concern. "You sure about that? You seem... off today. What's wrong?" He sipped his coffee, waiting for her to answer as he began preparing to leave for his shift.

She hesitated, wiping her hands on a dish towel and avoiding his gaze. "No, nothing... I'm just a bit tired, that's all."

Karim frowned, setting his cup down. "Tired? Then rest today. I'll talk to my mom and tell her to handle lunch for us. You shouldn't push yourself."

She shook her head quickly. "No, everything is fine. I'll cook. Your mom had a hard night yesterday, dealing with your... troubled brother."

Karim let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Ah, she's fine. She's used to him. My brother may be a fool, but deep down, he's decent. He loves our mom, you know that. I'm sure after seeing her upset like that last night, he'll straighten out for a while."

The mention of Ayman made her jaw tighten. She clenched the towel in her hand, trying to contain her anger. She didn't want to repeat the words Ayman had thrown at her earlier, but they lingered in her mind like a sour taste.

Karim, sensing her tension, softened his tone. "Look, I know he's... difficult, but he's family. He'll find his way eventually."

She couldn't hold back any longer. "Maybe. But we can't live here forever, Karim. Our child can't grow up in a place like this. I don't want them turning out like..." She stopped herself, the word this hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken contempt.

Karim looked at her, understanding her hesitation. "Like this? Like Ayman? Like the others here?" He sighed, leaning forward. "Yes, this place is rough. It's not perfect. Hell, it's far from it. But it's where I grew up, and look at me now. Not everyone here ends up like that."

She crossed her arms, her eyes searching his for reassurance. "I know, but—"

Karim stood, placing his hands on her shoulders gently. "Listen, I can't force you to love this place, and I understand why you feel the way you do. But give me time. I promise, we'll move. We'll find somewhere better, somewhere we can both be happy. Close to both families, maybe even in a place like Marsa if you want. Just give me some time to save enough, and I'll make it happen."

She looked up at him, her frustration softening slightly. "Okay," she murmured. "I trust you."

Karim smiled and leaned down to kiss her forehead. "That's my girl," he whispered, pulling her into a warm hug. "Call me if you need anything today, alright?"

She nodded, managing a faint smile as he grabbed his things and headed out the door. As the sound of his footsteps faded, she let out a deep sigh, her earlier anger cooling but not disappearing entirely.

After finishing her chores, she made her way downstairs to visit Fatma, her mother-in-law. She found her sitting in the kitchen, peeling vegetables for the day's meal.

"Good morning, Fatma," she greeted, though her tone lacked its usual cheer.

Fatma glanced up, instantly noticing the shift in her demeanor. "Good morning, my daughter. You look upset. What's wrong?"

She hesitated for a moment, then sat down across from Fatma. "It's about Ayman," she began, her voice low. "This morning, he came home drunk and called me... called me a bitch."

Fatma's hands stopped mid-motion, her expression darkening. "He what?"

"I'm not happy about it, I didn't tell Karim because I know he will be very angry and he would kick Ayman's ass" she continued, her voice trembling slightly. "I love Karim. And I respect you alot and treat you as my own mother. I chose your son over a life of comfort in Marsa, but this... this kind of thing can't continue. I don't want to raise my child around that kind of behavior."

Fatma placed the knife down carefully, her lips pressing into a thin line. "That boy," she muttered, shaking her head. "He's been out of control for too long. Don't worry, my daughter. I'll talk to him. He needs to understand that this is unacceptable. Thanks for not telling Karim, I will handle this."

She reached out and patted her daughter-in-law's hand reassuringly. "You chose my son because you knew his heart. And I know his heart too. He'll make things right for you, I promise. But as for Ayman... he'll hear from me when he wakes up."

The younger woman nodded, feeling a small sense of relief. As she left to continue her day, Fatma's resolve hardened. She was determined to speak sense into Ayman, no matter how stubborn he might be.

Ayman groaned as he woke up, his head pounding like a drum, his mouth dry as sandpaper. The afternoon light streamed through the window, cutting into his blurry vision. He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the hangover that lingered from last night's drinking. The events of the day before flashed in fragments in his mind: the chaos at the station, the fight, his mother's breakdown, and then drowning it all in alcohol with his friends.

Stumbling out of bed, he made his way to the kitchen, still in yesterday's wrinkled clothes. His stomach growled, and he opened the fridge, rummaging for anything to quiet the hunger. A few pieces of stale bread, a cup of yogurt, and some broken cookies became his improvised breakfast. He scarfed them down, washing it all down with a glass of lukewarm water.

As he chewed, he felt a weight in the room. His eyes darted toward the corner, where his mother, Fatma, sat silently in her usual chair. Her arms were folded, her back stiff, and her gaze was fixed on him like a dagger.

"Good afternoon, Mama," he said with a forced grin, trying to mask his discomfort. She didn't respond, her eyes narrowing slightly.

"What's with the silent treatment?" he continued, chuckling awkwardly. "You mad because I ate the last of the yogurt?" He tried to laugh, but the sound fell flat in the heavy air.

Still, she didn't say a word. Instead, she stood abruptly, her chair scraping the floor, and walked out of the kitchen, leaving him alone with his empty plate and a gnawing sense of unease.

After finishing his meager meal, he followed her to her room. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, her hands resting on her lap, her face turned away from him.

"Mom," he began softly, leaning against the doorframe. "What's wrong? What made my lovely mama so angry, huh? Tell me, and I'll go kick their ass." He approached her with a playful grin, trying to hug her, but she shrugged him off.

"It's you, Ayman," she said coldly, her voice trembling with restrained anger.

His smile faltered. "Me? What did I do now?"

She turned to face him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I told you to stay away from trouble. I told you to stay away from people like Farid. And what did you do? You went right to him."

Ayman raised his hands defensively. "Come on, Mama. I told you yesterday—it wasn't about Farid! It was Hamza, my friend. He got jumped, and I went to help him. That's all."

"Your friend?" she snapped, her voice rising. "Since when is Farid your friend? That man's a gangster, Ayman. He spends more time in prison than out of it! I warned you about people like him. But you... you never listen."

"It wasn't Farid!" Ayman shot back, his tone growing defensive. "I was helping Hamza. He's a good guy, Mom. What was I supposed to do? Just leave him there?"

"And after that?" she countered. "You didn't come home to rest. You went out drinking. All night. Again."

Ayman sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I needed it, okay? After the day I had, I needed it. Do you know what they did to me, Mom? Karim's friends, the ones at the station—they beat me. They kicked me, humiliated me. And then Karim—he goes and buys them drinks for letting me go. Can you believe that?"

Fatma's expression shifted, her anger fading into something heavier, something more painful. She turned her face away, wiping her eyes with the edge of her scarf.

"Mama?" Ayman stepped closer, his voice softer now. "Why are you crying? Don't... don't cry. Come on."

Fatma shook her head, her shoulders trembling. Finally, she looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Ayman... do you think I'm a bitch?"

The question hit him like a slap. His jaw dropped, his mind racing to understand. "What?!" he blurted out, his voice rising in shock. "What are you talking about, Mama? Who said that to you?"

Ayman's breath caught in his throat. He stumbled back a step, his mind reeling. "No... no, Mama, I didn't mean—"

"You said it, Ayman," she interrupted, her voice breaking. "And she heard it. And now she's angry, hurt. And you... you don't even remember."

"I was drunk," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean it. I swear."

"Drunk or not, Ayman, words have meaning," she said, her tone heavy with disappointment. "She's my daughter-in-law. She left everything for Karim. And you... you insult her? You insult our family? What's wrong with you?"

Ayman felt the weight of her words pressing down on him. He wanted to defend himself, to explain, but then she turned toward him, her eyes red and wet with tears, and her voice broke as she unleashed the pain buried deep inside her.

"Do you think I'm a bitch, Ayman?" she repeated, her voice trembling. "After everything I've done for you, for Karim... do you think I'm a bitch?"

"Mama, no," he stammered, his voice weak.

She cut him off, her voice rising with raw emotion. "After your father left us, I worked day in and day out to keep you alive! I walked from street to street collecting bottles to sell, scraping together pennies just to make sure you and your brother could eat. Do you think I wanted that life for myself? Do you think I enjoyed it?"

Ayman stood frozen, the words slicing into him like blades.

"If I was a bitch, I could have walked away!" she cried, her hands trembling as she gestured toward him. "I could have left you both to suffer in this harsh, unforgiving world. I could have chosen to live my life, free from all this pain. But I didn't. I couldn't. Because I'm a mother, Ayman. That's what mothers do. They stay. They fight. They sacrifice everything because their children mean more to them than life itself."

She paused, choking back a sob, her chest heaving. "Marwa... she will be a mother too. She's carrying your brother's child. And yet, you have the nerve to call her that? To insult her like that?" Her voice cracked with disbelief. "How dare you, Ayman? How dare you?"

Ayman's throat tightened, his face pale as her words echoed in his mind. His lips trembled as he tried to respond, but the guilt and shame overwhelmed him.

"I was drunk," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I... I didn't mean it. I don't even know how I said it. At the end, I... I..." His words faltered as his eyes filled with tears.

Fatma shook her head, her disappointment cutting deeper than any punishment could. "Drunk or not, those words came from you. And they hurt, Ayman. They hurt more than you know. Your big brother will be very angry if he learns about this."

Tears rolled down Ayman's face as he looked at her, his chest heavy with regret. "Mama, I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking. "I'll apologize to her. I swear. I'll make it right."

Fatma wiped her tears with the edge of her scarf and sighed deeply. "You'd better," she said, her tone softening but still firm. "Marwa left everything for Karim. She gave up her luxurious life in Marsa to live here because she loves him. She could have stayed in her perfect world, but she chose this... she chose us. And you..." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "You disrespected her. That's not just wrong, Ayman—it's shameful."

Ayman nodded silently, his head hanging low, unable to meet her gaze.

"You must apologize to her," Fatma continued, her voice steady but resolute. "Not just for her sake, but for mine. For this family. Because if you don't... you'll destroy what little we have left."

"I will," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "I'll apologize, Mama. I promise."

Fatma nodded, her face softening, though the pain still lingered in her eyes. "Good," she said, her voice almost a whisper now. "Because this family has been through enough."

Ayman stood there, tears streaming down his face, as the weight of her words settled in his chest. For the first time in a long time, he felt the full burden of his actions—and the fragile ties that held their family together.