The morning of the meeting arrives, shrouded in a tense quiet. I barely slept, thoughts swirling around the lawyer’s words and the elders’ silence. Each step to the madrasa feels weighted, like I’m carrying the secrets of my father’s past.
As I approach the building, the familiar sound of prayer echoes softly, a backdrop to my uncertainty.
The elders are already gathered when I enter, their expressions unreadable. The lawyer sits at the end of the long table, his gaze shifting between the faces around him.
My mother sits beside the lawyer, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. I can see the strain in her eyes, a reflection of my own turmoil.
“We need to discuss your father’s will,” the lawyer begins, his voice measured yet firm.
The room feels colder, the air thick with anticipation. I nod, unable to find my voice.
“There are properties… investments,” he continues, laying out documents before us. The words seem distant, as if they’re part of another world entirely.
The elders exchange glances, their silence a form of communication I’ve come to recognize.
“Why now?” I manage to ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
The lawyer hesitates, choosing his words carefully.
“Your father wanted to ensure… his legacy was protected,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
The word ‘legacy’ hangs in the air, an echo of something I can’t yet grasp.
My mother shifts in her seat, finally speaking up.
“He wanted you to have choices,” she says softly, her gaze fixed on the table.
Choices. The word feels heavy, loaded with possibilities and burdens I hadn’t anticipated.
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