The Threads We Mend

Zainab sat by the window in the quiet guest room of her mother's home, watching the rain drizzle lazily against the glass. Her daughter, Nura, lay asleep beside her, clutching the little teddy bear Yusuf had sent in the mail a few weeks earlier. For days now, her mother had tried her best to be present. And slowly, Zainab had allowed her back into her life—not as punishment, but as healing.

She heard Naima's laughter downstairs, followed by Musa's soft voice. The two had become inseparable since the fundraiser night. Musa visited often, and though Naima still rolled her eyes at his jokes, everyone could see the affection blooming.

Zainab sighed and returned her gaze to the journal on her lap. She hadn't written in weeks—not since Yusuf had asked to meet her again. That letter still sat unopened in her drawer.

"Are you going to open it?" her mother asked from the doorway.

Zainab didn't turn around. "Eventually."

"You still love him."

Zainab finally met her mother's eyes. "Love doesn't erase pain."

"No, it doesn't," her mother agreed, walking in and placing a hand on her shoulder. "But neither does running."

---

Later that evening, Zainab finally opened the letter.

My Zainab,

I don't expect forgiveness. I just want you to know that loving you taught me who I really am. Watching you walk away taught me what it means to lose something precious. You didn't just leave, Zainab. You took my heart with you.

If you'll ever have coffee with me again, I'll be waiting every Friday at the little garden café you used to love.

No pressure. Just hope.

—Yusuf.

Zainab's fingers trembled as she folded the letter.

Friday was tomorrow.

---

Naima strolled into her room without knocking, as usual. "So? You gonna see him?"

Zainab raised a brow. "You've suddenly stopped avoiding Musa. Why the change of heart?"

Naima blushed. "He's… different. He listens. And he doesn't try to fix me."

Zainab smiled. "That's the best kind of love."

Naima sat beside her. "So go. You don't have to take him back. Just… see what's still there."

Zainab glanced at her sleeping daughter. "I'll go. But this time… I choose for me."

---

Friday morning arrived like a whisper.

Zainab dressed simply—nothing extravagant, just herself. She arrived at the garden café, heart pounding, only to find Yusuf already seated with a cup of tea in front of him.

He stood the moment he saw her.

"You came."

Zainab nodded slowly, sitting down. "You waited."

"I would've waited forever."

For a while, they just sat in silence, watching the other guests bustle around.

"I didn't write to make you come back," he said finally. "I wrote because I needed to say it. All of it."

Zainab studied his face—the tired eyes, the softened jawline, the absence of the cold arrogance he once wore like armor.

"I'm not the same girl you married," she said.

"I know. And I don't want her back. I want the woman who walked away when it hurt the most. The woman who raised our daughter with strength. The real Zainab."

Her eyes welled with tears.

"I'm not asking for forever," Yusuf continued, his voice steady. "Just today. And maybe, one day at a time… something more."

Zainab took a shaky breath, then reached for the cup of tea in front of her. "Then let's start with tea."

Yusuf smiled. Not the charming billionaire smile. But something more real.

Something like hope.

---

That night, Zainab journaled for the first time in months:

Sometimes, healing doesn't come from forgetting… but from finally facing the truth. I faced mine today. And I'm still standing.

Maybe love isn't about who breaks us… but who helps us rebuild.

To be continued…