JAMILA POV
"Your mother passed away this morningJamila. You need to come back here in the Philippines as soon as possible"
My whole body trembled I couldn't move from where I stood . Clutching the phone in my hand Was I dreaming? I stared blankly into space for several minutes, Tears slowly welling up in my eyes I wanted nothing more than to cry and scream from the pain I was feeling.
Why, out of all people, did it have to be Umi? She was my only ally in life—ever since Abi left us and started a new family, she was the only one I could lean on for everything.
Moments later, I snapped back to reality. I didn't waste any more time. I quickly packed my things, barely checking what I was throwing into my bag and suitcase. I had to see Umi before she was buried.
The flight was nearly 14 hours long. I felt like a spinning top, seated by the window in the back seat of the plane. My eyes were swollen, and the tears kept falling. As I stared out at the sky, I cried again, this time with soft sobs escaping my lips. I covered my mouth with a handkerchief.
Why is fate so unfair to me? Why does it keep taking the people I love?
If only there were no such thing as death, there would be no overwhelming sorrow, no heartbreak, no loneliness. But I am human, created by Allah from clay—part of the lineage of the beloved Prophet Adam. Whatever is destined will happen.
I wiped away my tears and sighed deeply as I began to feel the plane nearing my homeland—the place where I grew up—the capital city of the Philippines, Manila.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we've begun our descent into Manila. Outside your window, you may catch a glimpse of islands kissed by the sun and the sea — a place many call home.
For our returning kababayans, welcome back to the warmth of the Philippines — where the smiles are familiar, and every breeze feels like a memory.
For our guests, welcome to a land of a thousand islands and a million hearts.
Please fasten your seat belts and prepare for landing.
Mabuhay, and thank you for flying with us."
The lead cabin crew made the announcement.
A few more minutes passed, and the plane finally landed. Alhamdulillah, I arrived safely without any problems.
As soon as I got off the plane, I saw our driver, Uncle Malik. He was chubby and a bit older, and he quickly walked toward me when he saw all the luggage I had. When he took the bags from my hands, I immediately thanked him with a heartfelt shukran.
He opened the car door and waited for me to get in. Once I was inside, he closed the door gently.
During the ride, I remained silent, not intending to speak. But Uncle Malik, who had been glancing at me through the rearview mirror for some time, finally broke the silence.
"Jamila…" he said gently, his voice laced with hesitation, as though he wasn't sure where to begin. "There's something you need to know… something your mother never told you."
I turned my gaze toward him, puzzled.
"Before your mother passed," he continued, glancing briefly at me in the rearview mirror, "she used to visit the place where your father lives… with his new family."
My heart sank at his words. I struggled to make sense of them.
"She went there?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes. Often. Almost every week, sometimes even twice. She never went inside. She never caused a scene. She just stood nearby, watching quietly from a distance. Sometimes she waited in the car, sometimes under a tree. But she never knocked on their door."
I didn't know what to say. My chest tightened with every word he spoke.
"She brought things too," Uncle Malik continued. "Food… gifts for the children… and sometimes papers. Important-looking ones. There was one envelope she always held close to her chest. She guarded it carefully."
"What papers?" I asked, leaning forward now. "What was in that envelope?"
He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable.
"I asked her once. She didn't say much, but I caught a glimpse when she dropped it in the car. It was about a business—your mother's business. That envelope contained legal documents… about your share in her company."
"My share?" I echoed in disbelief. "She never told me anything about that."
"No," he said softly, shaking his head. "She was waiting for the right time. She wanted to make sure everything was in order before talking to you. She said she wanted to leave something behind… something that would make your future easier. But she insisted your father needed to see those papers too."
I frowned. "Why would she bring them to him?"
"I don't know exactly," he said with a sigh. "All I know is that she hoped for some kind of peace. Maybe she wanted him to acknowledge you. Maybe she thought if he signed something, it would secure your rights—your share—without any complications in the future."
I was silent for a moment, trying to absorb everything. Then I asked the question that had been growing louder in my mind.
"Where are those documents now, Uncle Malik?"
He paused for a long time before answering.
"It's better if you talk to your father," he finally said, carefully choosing his words. "I only know what I saw. What she said to me was always limited—she didn't like to worry others. But she mentioned that your father has them now. Or at least, he knows what they are and where they're kept."
My heart began to pound. Anger, grief, and confusion tangled together in my chest.
"He has them?" I repeated, disbelief and hurt in my voice. "Why would she give something so important to the man who abandoned us?"
"She didn't trust many people, Jamila," he said. "But deep down, I think she still hoped that your father… might someday do the right thing."
I leaned back against the seat, staring blankly out the window. The Manila streets outside seemed blurred and distant.
"She spent her final days trying to protect me," I whispered. "Even if it meant going to the man who hurt her most."
Uncle Malik didn't respond. He simply drove in silence, letting the weight of the moment settle between us.
I closed my eyes, but my mother's image wouldn't leave me. I could almost see her—standing outside that house, envelope clutched tightly in her hands, eyes filled with silent hope and sadness. She had carried so much. And yet, she kept it all hidden—never wanting me to carry even a fraction of her burden.
Now, it was my turn to face it. To face him. I will let the company get to them!
icense lingered in the air as we gathered for Umi's janazah. The sun had barely risen, but already the cemetery was filled with quiet mourners—family, neighbors, old friends. Everything felt heavy: the air, the silence, my own limbs.
Her body was wrapped in simple white cloth—kafan—as prescribed in our faith. She looked peaceful, as though she was only asleep. But I knew better. My heart knew better.
"Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un…" I whispered softly with every step, my palms trembling. "Truly, we belong to Allah, and to Him we shall return."
We laid her gently in the grave, facing the qibla, and the imam led the final du'a. I kept my eyes closed, lips silently moving in prayer. My tears fell freely now, soaking into the sleeves of my abaya. This was it. My last moment with the only person who never left my side.
When the soil was poured over her, I felt a piece of myself being buried too.
Women stood at a distance, as was custom, and I respected that, even though I wanted nothing more than to hold her one last time. Instead, I stood quietly, letting the sobs come and go like waves.
After the crowd began to thin, I stayed behind with Uncle Malik. The sky had turned a pale shade of gray, and in the distance, the call to Dhuhr prayer echoed faintly from a nearby masjid.
Then… I saw him.
He stood a short distance away, near a tree. He wore a white thobe, clean and pressed, like he had just come from the masjid. But he didn't step forward. He didn't speak. He just stood there, watching.
My father.
I hadn't seen him in over a decade. Time had etched lines onto his face, but I would've known him anywhere. That same proud posture, that same stillness.
I don't know what pushed me to move—but my legs began walking on their own. Step by step. My heart thudded in my chest, not from longing, but from something colder.
He noticed me approaching and straightened his back. He seemed unsure whether to speak first, but I didn't give him the chance.
"Assalamu Alaikum," I said, my voice calm but distant. Formal.
"Wa Alaikum Assalam," he replied, hesitating.
We stood there in silence for a moment, two strangers with shared blood and broken history.
"You came," I said.
"I… I heard the news. I'm sorry, Jamila." His voice cracked slightly.
I didn't reply. I didn't need his apology. What I needed were answers.
"Uncle Malik told me," I began, meeting his eyes directly, "that Umi visited you. Many times. Even after everything."
He looked away, shame flickering across his face.
"She brought you something. A document. About my share in her company."
He nodded slowly, guilt pressing down on his features.
"She told me it was important," I continued, my voice sharper now. "She trusted you with it. Why? I'll never understand. But she did. So now I'm asking you—where is it?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he looked past me, toward the fresh mound of earth where Umi now rested.
"She always believed in doing the right thing," he murmured. "Even when others didn't deserve her kindness. She left the documents with me… told me to hold onto them in case something happened. She wanted to make sure you got what was yours."
I clenched my jaw.
"Then why didn't you give them to me the moment I arrived? Why didn't you come to me directly?"
"I didn't know how to face you," he admitted. "I knew you hated me."
I looked at him—really looked at him. And in that moment, I realized something. I didn't hate him. I didn't have the energy to.
"I don't hate you," I said quietly. "I just don't know who you are anymore. You stopped being my father the day you walked out and left us."
He bowed his head, and I felt the weight of years hang in the silence between us.
"I'll take the documents now," I said firmly. "That's all I came here for. And that's the reason why I want to talk to you"
"I brought them with me," he said, pulling a thick envelope from the inside of his coat. He extended it toward me, his hands shaking slightly. "Everything your mother wanted you to have is in there."
I took it without another word. I didn't say thank you. I didn't cry. I simply held it to my chest and turned away.
As I walked back toward the grave, I whispered a final du'a for Umi.
Ya Allah, grant her the highest place in Jannah. And give me the strength to live with the love she left behind… and the truth she hid to protect me.
The ride back home felt unreal. The city buzzed outside, unchanged and full of life—but inside me, everything was different. Emptier. Quieter. Heavier.
When we pulled up to the gate, the house felt unfamiliar, like it had aged overnight. Or maybe it was me who had changed.
Uncle Malik helped me with my bags, and I thanked him softly before stepping inside. The silence welcomed me like a blanket I didn't want to wear.
I walked slowly through the hallway. The scent of attar—Umi's favorite—still lingered faintly in the air, especially near her room. I paused in front of her door. It was slightly ajar.
My hand reached for the doorknob.
I pushed it open gently. The room was untouched. Her prayer mat lay folded at the foot of the bed, the Qur'an still resting on her nightstand. A half-used bottle of rose water sat on the vanity. Everything screamed her. Everything hurt.
I stepped inside and sat on the edge of her bed.
The air was thick with memories. Her laughter. Her voice calling me to dinner. Her soft hands stroking my hair when I couldn't sleep.
My eyes drifted to the small shelf above her vanity where she kept her photo frames. One in particular caught my attention. It was the only picture of us—just the two of us—in one frame. I was maybe ten, missing a tooth and grinning like I didn't have a care in the world. And there she was, beside me, arms wrapped around me like I was her entire world.
I touched the glass and whispered, "You were everything to me, Umi."
I sighed deeply and stood up, slowly making my way to my room. The envelope weighed heavily in my hand—physically and emotionally.
I closed the door behind me, dropped my bag on the floor, and sat at my desk. I opened the envelope carefully. Inside were several documents—some stamped, some notarized. At first glance, it looked like a standard business transfer. There were legal papers detailing shares, percentages, and ownership clauses in my mother's company.
But then… something unexpected happened.
A folded piece of paper slipped out and fluttered to the floor.
I picked it up. It was old but neat. My name was handwritten on the front in Umi's elegant script.
With trembling fingers, I unfolded it.
It wasn't just a letter—it was her will and testament.
I began to read.
Bismillahir Rahmanir Raheem
In the Name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful
To my dearest daughter, Jamila,
If you are reading this, it means I have returned to our Creator, Alhamdulillah. Do not cry for me, my child, for my journey has ended but yours is just beginning.
I have left you not only the fruits of my labor, but also the path I believe Allah destined for you. You will find documents of your share in my company, but you will not receive it immediately.
There is a condition.
Before you inherit anything from me, I ask that you complete four years of Islamic education at Madrasah Al nahda the school I chose for you in my heart long ago. It is located in the southern province, and it is a place that shaped much of my faith when I was younger.
This is my final wish as your mother. Not to limit you—but to guide you. This world needs women who are strong, wise, and grounded in faith.
And one more thing, my love…
You will meet a man there. His name is Behruz Samandari Al-Mirzani, the son of the school's headmaster. I know how it sounds, but I ask you to trust me one last time.
I have met him. I have seen his heart. And I believe—with full certainty—that he is the kind of man who will not dim your light, but protect it. You are not being forced. You are being prepared.
Complete your studies. Meet him. Speak to him. If after all that, you still do not wish to marry him, then I leave the final choice in your hands.
But know this: your full inheritance will only be given to you upon the completion of both conditions—your studies, and this union.
With all my love,
Umi
didn't move for a long time.
I just sat there, holding the letter, my mind spiraling. This was not what I expected. This wasn't just about money or ownership. This was about my life. My future. And Umi had planned it all in silence.
A mixture of emotions rose in my chest—confusion, disbelief, grief… and something else. Something that felt like quiet respect.
Even now, she was guiding me.
I folded the letter again, more carefully this time, and placed it back inside the envelope. I looked out the window, toward the fading sun.
Madrasah Al nahda
Behruz Samandari Al mirzani
A name I had never heard, but somehow it had already changed the course of my life.
I didn't know what was waiting for me. But one thing I'm sure was the decision of my mother.
MADRASAH AL NAHDA (DAVAO CITY)
SOMEONE'S POINT OF VIEW
clean walls of the Samandari household. The family sat around the dinner table, but the air felt heavier than usual. Not because of exhaustion, or a long day of teaching and reflection—but because of news that reached deep into memory and heart.
"Amirah Basri… has returned to Allah ," Ustadz Yusuf repeated solemnly, after a moment of silence.
Behruz slowly put his spoon down, the taste of lentils now distant and irrelevant. He leaned back in his chair, elbows resting gently on the arms, and his eyes found a fixed point on the floor—unmoving.
He remembered her.
Not her face in detail, no—but the presence of her, the feeling that lingered long after her visit. The quiet strength, the way she carried pain without showing it. That single envelope she left on the table, and the way his father handled it with both reverence and hesitation. It wasn't just a file—it was a trust.
"She was very sick," Ustadz Yusuf said, his voice measured. "But she didn't show it. Not in her tone, not in her eyes. Her heart was on her daughter. That was all."
Behruz remained silent, his jaw tightening.
She left everything for that girl, he thought. Not just money or paperwork. She left intention. She left her last breath in the form of a future.
"She was alone," his mother said quietly, breaking the stillness. "You could see it. The kind of loneliness that doesn't need words to explain."
That struck something deeper in Behruz. Loneliness. It was something he had studied in theory—how the Prophet ﷺ found solitude in the Cave of Hira, how Maryam (alayhas-salaam) bore hardship alone under the palm tree—but hearing it now, about a woman who walked those very halls years before, felt different.
"I promised her, Behruz," Ustadz Yusuf said, his tone now firmer, though still gentle. "That if her daughter ever came here, I would do what I could to ensure she is nurtured, not just in intellect but in iman. I promised to protect her. And I cannot do that without your help."
Behruz finally met his father's gaze. "And what exactly do you mean by that, Abi?"
"I mean," his father said, "that this young woman—Jamila—was entrusted to us. Not just as administrators, or caretakers of a school. But as people of amanah. If she comes with grief, we must meet it with compassion. If she comes with questions, we must meet them with clarity. And if she comes with no direction… we must help her find one."
Behruz swallowed hard.
He hadn't planned for this. Not for any of it. His days were orderly, centered around classes, Qur'an study, helping manage logistics for new students. Marriage had crossed his mind now and then—but abstractly, like a distant road that one eventually reaches. Not like this. Not attached to a legacy. Not to someone whose name came with weight and mystery.
"And if she doesn't want to be here?" he asked.
His father smiled softly. "Then we accept that, and we continue to care for her as long as she's under our roof. There is no compulsion in this deen, Behruz. We are guides, not gatekeepers."
"But you think she was meant to be here."
"I do," Yusuf replied. "Just as her mother returned, Jamila will arrive not by accident. Some doors open only when Allah commands them to."
Behruz fell into silence again, eyes distant.
What would she be like?
A girl raised by a woman of strength, but burdened by the absence of a father.
Grieving. Confused. Maybe angry.
Or maybe… just tired. Tired of pretending she didn't need guidance.
He imagined her stepping onto the grounds of Madrasah Al-Nahda. Would she look like her mother? Would she ask the same quiet, searching questions?
More than anything, he imagined the weight of her silence.
"I didn't expect this," he finally said.
"Neither did I," his father responded. "But life doesn't come to us in the shape we expect. That's why Allah reminds us to be people of sabr."
Behruz nodded, slowly. The idea wasn't romantic or poetic. It was real. Someone was coming, whose entire world had just shattered. And whether or not she would welcome it, she had been placed in his orbit for a reason.
Not to rescue her.
Not to fix her.
But maybe… just to witness her becoming who she was meant to be.
And if Allah willed it, maybe she would be a part of his path, too.
"I'll do what I can," he finally said, voice calm but resolute.
Ustadz Yusuf reached over and placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder. "That's all I ask."
The rest of dinner was quiet—comfortably so. The kind of silence that settles not with dread, but with preparation. Across the courtyard, a room had been prepared. Books had been dusted. A space had been made.
And in the heart of Behruz Samandari Al-Mirzani, a door had quietly begun to open.