The dining room was already loud by the time I stepped back in.
Zehira stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, face tight with the kind of disappointment that only came from watching three nearly-grown adults vandalize her sacred walnut dining set.
Adem, Tarik, and Amina sat on the other side like a busted-up science trio in detention.
"Permanent marker," Zehira said slowly, like it physically hurt. "On walnut."
Tarik scratched the back of his neck. "We thought we put enough cardboard under it."
"Clearly," she snapped, "you didn't think at all."
Adem tried to smudge a red stain into invisibility. Amina didn't even pretend to feel bad.
"I mean... maybe it gives it character?"
Zehira just blinked. Then turned on her heel, muttering, "It gives me a migraine," already reaching for her lemon oil like it was holy water.
Tarik leaned toward Amina. "You know she's gonna talk about this for the next forty years, right?"
"She should. This table is older than all of us combined," Adem muttered.
Amina grinned.
Zehira scrubbed like she was performing an exorcism. It took another hour before the table was set.
I took my usual seat near the middle. Tarik dropped across from me, and Amina slid between him and Adem like she'd been assigned that spot at birth.
Triplets in everything but blood.
She bumped Tarik's shoulder, nudged Adem's knee, and poured herself a glass of water like she hadn't just vandalized an heirloom.
The food was already out—grilled chicken, potatoes, baked rice. Lamija's untouched salad sat in the middle like a dare.
Ayub and Lamija sat diagonally across from each other—far enough to avoid suspicion, close enough to fail. A glance over the bread basket. A spoon passed without a word. A brush of hands. A pause too long.
I clocked it.
So did Imran. He looked at me across the table, brow raised.
You seeing this?
I just shook my head. Don't escalate it.
Ayub cleared his throat. Lamija stabbed her salad like it owed her money.
Amina leaned forward. "Mija, I love you, but this salad gets sadder every week."
Lamija didn't blink. "Then make your own."
"She won't," Tarik said. "She only knows how to cook chaos."
"She does make a mean mess," Adem added.
Amina, smug: "If I'm the mess, then what does that make you two? Accessories to crime?"
Zehira sighed. "You're all criminals for what you did to my table."
Ayub fought a smile. Lamija didn't—but she didn't look away either.
Husein's voice cut through. "Next week's vendor review will be a disaster if the Kovac numbers aren't updated."
"Already handled," Imran said.
"Not the revised one."
"Yes. The revised one."
Lamija, flat: "You're welcome."
Tarik smirked. "Let the man pretend he does something."
"I manage children," Imran muttered.
"Exactly," Amina said. "You run a daycare. In a suit."
"Does it have a slide?" Adem asked. "I might apply."
"You couldn't handle the hours."
"Oh my God," Zehira cut in. "Use. The. Tongs."
Tarik flinched. "I was just—"
"You weren't."
"She's got lasers in her eyes," Adem whispered.
"She's got standards," Amina said sweetly, handing him the salad.
"I don't eat this."
"Then put it on your plate for aesthetics."
Zehira sighed again. "You're all going to be the death of me."
"Wallahi we love you," Tarik said quickly.
"From the bottom of our tongs," Amina added.
"One more joke and I'm confiscating the rice," Zehira warned.
Silence. Mostly.
It was loud. Messy. Familiar.
Exactly how Sunday should be.
Dessert was half-picked over when Imran leaned back. "Adem. Go call it."
The room quieted.
Adem wiped his hands and nodded. "Bismillah."
He stepped outside. A moment later, his voice rang out across the yard—clear and steady.
The adhan for maghrib echoed through the house like something sacred cutting through the noise.
Zehira stood first. The others followed—Lamija adjusting her sleeves, Amina tugging Tarik behind her, Adem trailing in last.
I slipped out the back door to the swing.
The cushions were still warm, the woven throw soft beneath my hands. Lantern light glowed against ivy and hanging flowers, and string lights blinked low and golden across the wall. The air smelled like jasmine and wood.
The sky was softening into lavender.
Inside, I could hear the low murmur of prayer—Imran's voice leading, the rustle of sujood, the house settling into quiet.
I didn't join.
Just listened.
Then fifteen minutes later the sliding door flew open.
"Not fair!" Amina shouted. "You can't just pick me up and walk away with the ball, caveman!"
"I jogged," Tarik called back.
"Same violation!"
Adem tried to cut her off. She spun past him. "You two are the worst."
Tarik caught her again and bodily dragged her from the ball.
"You're literally cheating!"
"I'm strategizing."
"You're lifting me off the field!"
"Exactly."
She kicked him in the shin. "This is a war crime!"
I leaned back and watched.
Laughter. Grass-stained chaos. No rules. No weight.
She drop-kicked the ball into Adem's back. He collapsed.
"Alright," he wheezed. "Enough. Let's go inside. FIFA."
"Yeah," Tarik added. "My legs are done."
"You're both soft," Amina muttered.
They turned to go.
"Tarik," she called out. "Hold up."
He paused. "What?"
"You haven't done your Juz."
He groaned. "After FIFA."
"You say that every night. Then you're snoring like a broken blender."
"Twenty minutes," she said. "Just knock it out. I'll go easy on you."
He grumbled, but turned back around.
She turned to me.
"Move over," she said, already sliding in.
She tucked her legs beneath her, settling onto the swing like it had been waiting for her all day. The cushions dipped beneath her weight. Her head tipped gently onto my shoulder, her hair brushing the edge of my jaw.
I didn't move—just let her be there.
My hands stayed in my lap.
The string lights above us glowed low and gold, catching in the leaves that draped along the wall. A hanging basket of flowers swayed slightly in the breeze. Candlelight flickered from the little wicker table beside us.
Still, she fit like she'd always known where to go.
Tarik climbed up onto the porch railing, the boards creaking under his weight. He flipped his phone once in his hand before tucking it away."Ready?"
"Go."
He closed his eyes for a beat, then started—Juz 22.
A little fast, but clean. When he skipped a madd, Amina called him on it.
"Better?" he muttered.
"Keep going."
He did. Her corrections were sharp, but gentle.
When he finished, he stretched dramatically. "Put that in the chat."
"I'll do it," she muttered.
He went inside. She stayed with me.
Quiet.
Then: "I still need to do mine."
I looked down at her. "W-hhy didn't y-you ask T-tarik?"
"I like doing it with you."
I didn't answer. Just pulled out my phone and opened the app. "Juz?"
"Twenty-three."
She started.
More stumbles than usual.
Every time she slipped, I corrected her with the full ayah—calm, even, no hesitation.
She watched me each time. Didn't blink. Just picked up exactly where I left off.
It kept happening. Different ayahs. Same pause. Same quiet look.
By the fifth one, I glanced down at her. "You messing up on purpose?"
She smiled. Then laughed.
"Maybe," she said. "Your voice sounds good when you recite."
I didn't answer..
She finished the rest perfectly—every word exact.
Then leaned her head back against my shoulder, voice soft.
"Put it in the chat, please."
I didn't argue.
Just opened my phone and typed:
CHAT: 🕌 Begović Barz: Qur'an Edition
AYUB: Juz 18 done ✅ Read w/ Imran at masjid after Fajr.
LAMIJA: Juz 19 read to Imran.He read 20 to me. No complaints except his pacing is slower than dial-up internet.
IMRAN: Some of us value proper tajwid, Lamija.
ADEM: Juz 22 w/ Lamija ✅ Only had to restart once, thank you.Put some respect on my hifz.
AMINA: Tarik read 23 with me 💅Superman spiritually supervised from the swing.(It was healing.)
TALHA: Amina stumbled her way through Juz 24 with more drama than necessary.
She was already leaned into my side, eyes closed, a faint smile still on her lips.
"Y-you're g-gonna fall a-asleep a-again," I said.
"No I won't," she mumbled. "Just resting my eyes."
"R-right."
I kept the swing moving slow.
She didn't say anything else. Her breathing evened out. The breeze moved through the hedges. Somewhere out near the stables, Caesar let out a sharp, impatient whinny—calling for Lamija, who clearly wasn't coming.
The wind shifted again. Leaves rustled. A gate clicked shut in the distance.
She was asleep by then—completely still, the weight of her leaned soft into my shoulder.
I didn't move.
Eventually, the door slid open again.
Imran stepped out barefoot, squinting into the dusk.
He spotted her instantly and laughed. "Seriously?"
I rolled my eyes.
He crouched down beside us. "Come here, pile," he muttered, slipping an arm under her knees and the other behind her back.
She didn't stir. Just exhaled deeper like she knew exactly where she was going.
"Every Sunday," he said, lifting her.
"L-like clock-work."
He nodded. "Appreciate the babysitting."
Then he turned and carried her back inside.
No questions. No second looks.
Just family.
I sat there a little longer. Let the quiet settle. Let her warmth linger.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
There's something sacred about the chaos we grow up in—about the routines that feel messy but end up making us whole. This chapter is full of swing creaks, Qur'an recitations, and group chat roasts. It's also about what it means to be held without question—by family, by faith, or by someone who never makes you ask. Even when you're "just resting your eyes."
14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNZC54dmbMO
