AMAL
Grateful that Aahil’s Uncle and his family have left, I slip into my black jilbab and head downstairs. Breakfast is still spread out on the dining table and I know it must be for me. I sit down and pour some soup for myself along with freshly baked bran bread.
A salaam takes me by surprise. I scramble up when I see Phupho standing in the doorway.
“Assalaamualaikum,”
She nods her head and heads toward the table.
“Sit down,” She says, voice low and hoarse. She looks like grief has chewed her up whole. Again, I feel a twinge of guilt for not feeling that level of sadness for my own Dad.
I wait for her to take a seat before doing so. “Have you eaten anything?” I sound like an awkward teen who literally has no idea how to talk to strangers. Because that’s what she is. A stranger—
