*******

The day had arrived. The day Layla had dreaded ever since Muhammad had sat her down, held her hands, and shattered her heart with the news.

Juwairah was going to be her co-wife.

Layla never thought she'd have one, to be honest. Even with all the talks and reminders that polygamy was part of their culture, she had never envisioned herself in such a position. But, unfortunately, this was part of her destiny.

She closed her eyes, exhaling heavily as she sat on the edge of her bed. The house was quiet, eerily so. Sabrina was with her grandmother, which meant Layla had been left alone with nothing but her thoughts.

A sharp pain twisted in her chest.

The happiest thing about all this? She wouldn't be living in the same house as Juwairah. That was a relief. A big one.

The saddest thing? She had to share her husband with someone else.

Her Muhammad.

Her lips trembled, and she clenched her fists in her lap, fighting the emotions threatening to spill over.

"Ya Allah, give me patience."

The news of the wedding had spread like wildfire. Relatives, friends, even people who barely knew her suddenly had something to say. Some pitied her. Some gave her useless advice. Some whispered behind her back, saying she should have expected this, that she should be grateful Muhammad still cared enough to tell her beforehand.

Grateful?

A bitter chuckle escaped her lips.

Would they have said the same if it were them in her place? If their husbands, the men they loved, came home one day and said they were taking another wife, not out of love but out of obligation?

Layla wiped her damp cheeks roughly.

No matter what, the day had come. Juwairah was officially Muhammad's wife now.

And there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

Layla's heart ached at the sight before her—Muhammad sitting on the edge of the bed, holding their daughter close, his eyes distant, lost in thought. He looked up as she walked in, and for a moment, there was silence between them. The tension in the room was heavy, suffocating.

She forced a small smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "You should get ready. It's almost time." Her voice was calm, composed—a stark contrast to the storm raging inside her.

Muhammad nodded, shifting Sabrina slightly in his arms. "I know," he murmured. But he made no move to stand, as if delaying the inevitable.

Layla walked closer, standing beside him. She reached out and ran her fingers gently through Sabrina's soft curls. The little girl cooed, oblivious to the turmoil between her parents.

"Do you need help getting dressed?" she asked softly.

His eyes snapped to hers, and for a fleeting second, she saw it—the guilt, the regret, the sorrow buried deep within him. He swallowed hard, then shook his head. "No, I'll manage."

Layla inhaled deeply and nodded. "Okay."

She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her. "Layla..."

She froze, gripping the edge of her boubou tightly.

"I..." he hesitated, then sighed, running a hand down his face. "I'm sorry."

Layla turned around slowly, her expression unreadable. "You're sorry?" she repeated, her voice almost a whisper.

He nodded, looking away as if ashamed. "I never wanted this. I swear, Layla, I never wanted this."

She let out a bitter chuckle. "But here we are, Muhammad. And in a few hours, you'll have a new wife." Her voice wavered, but she refused to let the tears fall. Not now. Not in front of him.

Muhammad exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I love you, Layla. That hasn't changed."

"But it doesn't change anything, does it?" she whispered. "Because love wasn't enough to stop this from happening."

She turned away then, her shoulders stiff as she walked out of the room.

Muhammad clenched his jaw and looked down at Sabrina, who was playing with the buttons on his shirt. He kissed her forehead and held her closer, feeling like the most wretched man alive.

Because today, he was about to break the heart of the only woman he had ever truly loved.

•

As promised, Ibty had come over to keep Layla company, determined to distract her from the reality of what was happening today. Layla appreciated the effort—she truly did—but no matter how much they laughed and talked, the weight in her chest refused to lift.

"Layla, Sabrina's birthday is coming up soon. What are we doing for it?" Ibty asked, tossing a pistachio into her mouth as she leaned back comfortably.

Layla blinked, her thoughts far from the conversation. It was only when Ibty snapped her fingers in front of her face that she snapped out of it.

"Earth to Layla!"

"Sorry, what?" Layla asked, shaking her head slightly.

Ibty sighed and repeated herself.

Layla exhaled, resting her chin in her palm. "I don't really know... Ni'imah is planning a party for her." She paused, then added with a small sigh, "But I'm baking a massive cake for her, though."

A flicker of excitement lit Ibty's face. "That's great! I'll help."

"Me too!" Ruqaiya, one of Layla's cousins, chimed in. "I love planning events!"

Layla gave them a small smile, appreciating their enthusiasm. If nothing else, at least Sabrina's birthday was something to look forward to.

The conversation soon drifted to other things—family gossip, new fashion trends, and pregnancy.

"Rahinatu, wallahi pregnancy fits you," Layla commented, eyeing her friend with admiration.

Rahinatu rolled her eyes. "Look at me—I've grown so much fatter, and you're saying it fits me? Hell no!"

Laughter filled the room, momentarily lifting Layla's spirits. They continued chatting, the warmth of their company a temporary balm to Layla's wounded heart.

By the time Maghrib approached, the gathering slowly began to disperse. After praying Isha, Ibty and the rest of the girls bid her goodbye, leaving Layla alone once again.

Muhammad had called earlier, checking in on her, but he still hadn't returned home. And she knew why.

Sabrina was napping peacefully, so Layla decided to distract herself by making macaroons. It took her nearly two hours, but when she finally placed the last delicate cookie on the tray, she felt a sense of accomplishment. Snapping a picture of her handwork, she admired the soft pastels of the macarons. They were perfect.

It was nearly 10 p.m. when she finally sat down in the upstairs living room. The soft hum of the television filled the space, playing a movie she wasn't even paying attention to. Her thoughts drifted, tangled in emotions she couldn't quite put into words.

Sharing her husband.

She had never imagined this would be her reality.

A sharp beep from the baby monitor pulled her from her thoughts. Sabrina was awake.

Layla got up and entered her daughter's room, only to find her standing in her crib, gripping the rails as she attempted to climb out.

A soft chuckle escaped Layla's lips. "Seriously, girl? Your little legs aren't even strong enough for that," she teased, lifting her up.

She carried Sabrina back to the living room, settling down once again. She made her a warm bottle of milk and fed her, stroking her daughter's soft curls as she drank sleepily. Once Sabrina was full, Layla placed her on the carpet next to her, letting her play with her toys.

With one hand, she scrolled through her Instagram DMs, checking the latest cake orders for Posh Little Cakes. Business was picking up, and she should have been excited, but her heart wasn't in it tonight.

Then, she heard the sound of the front door opening.

She didn't move.

She didn't look up.

But she felt his presence. She knew he was standing there, watching her.

Muhammad stood at the doorway, silently watching Layla as she pretended to be engrossed in her phone. The dim lighting of the living room cast a soft glow on her face, highlighting the quiet exhaustion in her eyes. She looked calm, composed, but he knew her too well—he could feel the storm raging beneath her exterior.

Sabrina, oblivious to the tension between her parents, was happily playing with her toy, babbling in her baby language.

He cleared his throat, stepping further into the room. "Layla."

She didn't look up. Didn't acknowledge him.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm home."

No response.

He exhaled, taking a few more steps forward. "How was your day?"

Still, nothing.

Layla continued scrolling through her phone, her fingers moving absentmindedly. But she wasn't reading a single word on the screen.

The silence was unbearable.

"Layla, please..." His voice was lower now, pleading.

She finally looked up, her gaze sharp and unreadable. "Did you enjoy your wedding, Muhammad?"

He felt that. Deep in his chest.

He clenched his jaw, searching for the right words. "Layla, you know this wasn't—"

"Wasn't what?" She cut him off, her voice eerily calm. "Wasn't your choice? Wasn't what you wanted? Wasn't supposed to happen?"

Muhammad swallowed hard.

She let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head. "But it did happen, didn't it?"

"Layla..." He took another step forward, but she held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

"I don't want to hear it, Muhammad. Not now. Not tonight." She glanced at Sabrina, who was now sucking on her fingers sleepily. "I need to put my daughter to bed."

My daughter. Not our daughter.

Muhammad's chest tightened. He watched as she gently lifted Sabrina into her arms and walked past him without another glance.

And just like that, he realized—this was only the beginning.

*****

It had been three days since Muhammad and Juwairah's wedding, and two days since Layla had last seen him. Today, he was coming to her house.

They had agreed on a schedule—two days in each house. It was fair, it was reasonable, and it was what everyone expected of her.

But none of that changed the fact that she missed him. So much.

They spoke often, of course. He called, he texted, he checked in. But it wasn't the same. She missed him. His presence, his warmth, the way he looked at her, touched her, teased her. She had been trying to push her feelings aside, to be strong, but the ache in her chest was undeniable.

Right now, she was at work, drowning in paperwork. Her head pounded from exhaustion, her body felt heavy, and she couldn't wait to go home to her sweet baby girl.

Since she had an early shift today, she had dropped Sabrina off at her parents' house before heading to work. She knew Mammy would be overjoyed to spend the day with her granddaughter.

Finally, after what felt like forever, she clocked out, grabbed her things, and dragged herself to the car. She drove lazily, meeting a little traffic on the way, but in no time, she arrived.

The security guard, Sunday, opened the gate for her. "Madam, good afternoon," he greeted respectfully.

"Afternoon, Sunday," Layla replied, offering him a tired smile. "How are you and your family?"

"We are all doing well, madam. Thank you for asking," he responded with a warm nod.

She parked the car, stepped out, and entered the house with a soft salam.

The moment she heard her daughter's excited voice, her exhaustion melted away.

"Maama!"

Layla's heart swelled.

"Kuzum, my baby!" She rushed forward and scooped Sabrina into her arms, showering her chubby cheeks with kisses. "I missed you, darling."

Sabrina giggled, her little hands patting Layla's face.

She sank onto the Italian rug beside Mammy, murmuring Bismillah as she settled in.

"İyi akşamlar, annem" (Good evening, my mother), Layla greeted in Turkish, slipping into the familiar warmth of her mother's native tongue.

"Nasılsın, tatlı kızım? İş nasıl?" (How are you, my sweet girl? How's work?) Mammy asked, brushing Layla's hair back with gentle fingers.

Layla sighed. "Alhamdulillah, but stressful."

"Kolay gelsin, can parem," Mammy said with a kind smile. (May it be easy for you, my heart.)

"Inshallah, sağol, Mammy," Layla replied, smiling in return.

She removed her headscarf and stretched a little, leaning into the comfort of home. "Mammy, this house feels so boring without Norah."

"Gerçekten mi? (Really?) I miss her too. But she calls every day," Mammy replied.

"Yeah, we talk every day. And with Ya Meena too." Layla paused. "Nasreen has gotten fatter."

Mammy chuckled, shaking her head. They fell into easy conversation, talking about everything and nothing. It felt good—normal, familiar, safe.

But Maghrib was approaching, and Layla had to leave. She kissed Mammy's hand and forehead before saying her goodbyes, then took Sabrina and headed home.

Sabrina had fallen asleep by the time they arrived. Layla tucked her into her crib, kissed her forehead, and quietly left the room.

After praying, she headed to the kitchen. Tonight, she wanted to cook something special for Muhammad.

Grilled chicken thigh skewers and Chinese fried rice.

She worked quickly, her hands moving with practiced ease. Within an hour, everything was ready. The table was set, the food arranged beautifully. Just as she finished, she heard the gate being opened.

Her heart skipped.

She wiped her hands and stepped out of the kitchen, sitting on the coffee table in the corridor.

The front door opened.

Muhammad stepped inside, his presence filling the space. "As-salamu alaikum," he greeted.

"Wa alaikum salam, habibi," she responded with a smile, her heart betraying her as it swelled with affection.

He walked toward her, his gaze soft but searching. "How are you, my love?"

"I'm fine," she said, then, unable to help herself, added, "How is your bride?"

She tried to sound casual, unaffected. But even she could hear the edge in her voice—the jealousy she was desperately trying to hide.

Muhammad raised a brow.

She bobbed her head slightly, covering his hand with hers.

He said nothing. Instead, he stepped closer, closing the distance between them in one swift movement. And then, he kissed her.

Not just a kiss—a claiming.

It was deep, slow, desperate. A kiss that spoke all the words they hadn't said, that carried all the emotions they had been holding back.

Every nerve in her body came alive. Butterflies swarmed her stomach, her fingers tightening around his shirt as she melted against him.

When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against hers, his breath warm against her lips.

"I missed you, baby," he murmured, voice husky.

"I missed you too, Muhammad," she whispered.

Hand in hand, they walked upstairs to their room.

Muhammad headed straight to the bathroom for a shower while Layla went to the closet, pulling out his pajamas—a black T-shirt and camouflage shorts. When he emerged ten minutes later, droplets of water still clinging to his skin, she handed him his clothes.

"Now," he said after dressing, reaching for her hand, "let's go eat the delicacies you made, babe."

They sat together at the dining table. Layla served him first before putting two pieces of chicken on her own plate.

Muhammad frowned. "Don't tell me you're eating only that?"

She nodded. "Yes, I am."

He gave her a pointed look.

Before he could argue, she added, "And before you say anything, I ate a lot at Mammy's. I'm not hungry."

He shook his head, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "Whatever you say. But just to be clear—I don't believe you."

He winked, then took a bite of his food.

They ate while talking, catching up on everything they had missed in the past two days. Sabrina's birthday was coming up, and Layla was already emotional about it.

"I can't believe she's turning one," she said, her voice soft with nostalgia. "Ya Allah, they grow so fast."

Muhammad nodded, a fond smile on his lips. "Yeah, mashallah. And you know what else? Our anniversary is coming up too."

Layla blinked. "Oh my God, you're right."

"Almost two years already," he said, shaking his head. "Can you believe it?"

She smiled, warmth filling her heart.

After dinner, Layla called the maid to clear the table, and they headed upstairs. But before going to their room, they stopped by Sabrina's nursery.

Together, they recited the night dua over their daughter, watching her sleep peacefully.

Then, they returned to their bedroom.

As they lay down, Muhammad pulled her into his arms, his warmth surrounding her.

They talked in hushed voices, their words fading into the stillness of the night.

Before long, Layla's exhaustion won.

Her eyes fluttered shut.

And for the first time in days—she slept peacefully.

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                                    -Deedah🧁