A letter from the past

Zainab sat quietly on the porch of her new house, the early morning sun brushing gold across her cheeks. She rocked gently in a wooden chair, one hand on her sleeping daughter's tiny back. Her life was far from the chaos she had once known. The spotlight was gone. The scandal had faded. And Yusuf… well, he hadn't stopped trying. But for now, peace was her only lover.

Until the postman arrived.

A small white envelope, with her name written in familiar handwriting she hadn't seen in years — her mother's.

She stared at it, her heart thudding as she opened it slowly.

> *"My dearest daughter,

If this letter ever reaches you, know that I am sorry. I failed you. I failed to protect you from choices that weren't yours to make. But I never stopped thinking about you, Zainab.

I am back in the country. I'm not asking for forgiveness… only a chance to see you again. Just once.

Love, Mama."*

Zainab folded the letter carefully. Her heart warred between anger and longing. She hadn't seen her mother since the day she was married off in her sister's place. The silence had been deafening.

Later that evening, as Musa and Naima bickered over dinner plans in the kitchen, Zainab pulled Yusuf aside.

"She wrote to me," she said softly.

Yusuf's eyes narrowed. "Your mother?"

Zainab nodded. "She's here. She wants to meet."

"And what do you want?"

Zainab hesitated. "Closure."

---

The next day, she took a cab to a quiet nursing home on the outskirts of town. She wore a light scarf, no makeup, and simple flats. She wasn't a billionaire's wife today. Just a daughter.

She walked into the garden and there she was — her mother, older, frailer, but still with the same sharp eyes that once told stories without words.

"Mama."

"Zainab."

They stared for a long moment. Then her mother reached out a trembling hand.

"I never wanted you to marry him," she said, her voice cracking. "Your father… he made the deal. I begged him. But I was too weak. And then I was ashamed."

Zainab's lips trembled. "You let me suffer. You let me cry myself to sleep in a stranger's house."

"I know." Her mother's eyes welled with tears. "But I watched. From afar. I saw your strength. Your courage. Your baby…"

"She has your eyes," Zainab said quietly.

They sat on the bench together. No more apologies were needed. Just silence, and the gentle healing of old wounds.

---

Meanwhile, back at the house, Musa was pacing the backyard while Naima scrolled through her phone.

"You can't keep ignoring me," Musa finally said.

"I'm not ignoring you," Naima replied, not looking up. "I'm just not ready to fall for another man with secrets."

"I don't have secrets," he said honestly. "Only scars. Like you."

Naima looked up then, her face softer. "Then tell me the truth. Why do you still live in Yusuf's shadow?"

Musa looked away. "Because I used to love the same girl he married."

Naima's brows raised. "Zainab?"

He nodded slowly. "Before she knew either of us. But I stepped aside when Yusuf wanted her. I thought I was doing the right thing."

Naima's voice was quiet. "And now?"

"I think I want a love that's mine. Not one I gave up."

Naima stood. Walked over. And this time… she didn't walk away.

---

When Zainab returned later that evening, her daughter sleeping in her arms, she found Yusuf sitting in the living room. He stood when he saw her.

"You okay?" he asked.

"She's sick," Zainab said softly. "But she's still my mother."

Yusuf nodded. "I never knew how much I broke you until I saw the pieces."

Zainab looked at him. "And now?"

"I see the woman who rebuilt herself," he said.

She sat beside him. "The woman you once broke… is no longer waiting to be rescued."

"I don't want to rescue you," he said. "I want to stand beside you."

There was a long pause.

Then Zainab said, "There's something else. A publisher read The Real Wife. They want to publish it officially."

Yusuf's eyes lit up. "That's amazing."

"But they want me to do press tours. TV interviews. Go back into the spotlight."

Yusuf looked nervous. "And what do you want?"

Zainab smiled. "I want to tell my story — on my terms."

---

Outside, Naima and Musa were dancing under the stars, laughter floating through the windows. Zainab watched from the balcony, her daughter in her arms, and a strange calm in her chest.

Her past had returned. Her wounds had spoken. And her story… was just beginning.