When Amatullah is thirteen, she completed the memorization of the entire Quran. It'd been her mother's dream: to have her only child become a hafizah, and she'd spent the last few years of her life pursuing this dream, by pushing her daughter to read and internalize the Holy Quran. Amatullah knows that her mother only has a few more years left to live, so she works hard to fulfil her mother's wish, by spending countless hours with her mus-haf clutched in her hands, reciting and memorizing the glorious verses, constantly keeping her lips moving in remembrance.

Her mother loves her beautiful voice and sinks back in her hospital bed as Amatullah's voice recites her favorite chapter of the sacred book. Amatullah has a powerful and clear voice and she often spends her evenings reciting the Quran to her dying mother. She treasures this time and is awarded by her mother's soothed face, as the verses of the Quran eases her pain and lulls her to sleep and she looks happy.

Amatullah loves to see her mother happy.

It is cancer she is told, and her young mind cannot grasp the concept that behind her mother's flesh and skin, there is a war being waged. Yet, she sees it in the creases on her mother's forehead which deepens as the weeks grow into months. She sees it in her mother's fading health, in her limp hair and dry lips. She sees it in her tired eyes, which were once bright and full of joy. It has been a full year since her mother has walked on her own two feet.

This is what occupies Amatullah's time, staying by her mother's side after school hours, reciting the Quran.

One day, as the sky grows bleary, and the hospital room is flushed grey, her mother bursts into a coughing fit. Amatullah, with her heart hammering in her head, calls the nurses who rush in clothed in their fresh white tunics. Her mother is clutching her chest, bent over and there is blood dribbling down her chin, splashes of bright red against the pale bedsheets. Amatullah wants to cry as a nurse ushers her out of the room. She glances back and sees her mother's face pinched in pain.

When it is over and the young girl is allowed back into her mother's hospital room, the her mother smiles at her.

"Don't be afraid, Amatullah." Her mother says. "Allah is with us."

Amatullah leans her head to the side, fighting back tears. "Mama, is Allah here right now?"

"Yes, child."

"Then tell Allah to let you live!" Amatullah cries, and her mother pulls her to her chest and comforts her, combing her fingers through the girl's hair.

"Listen, my heart." Her mother tells her in a soft voice. "We all belong to Allah. When we die, we return to Him. And Allah takes the best care of His servants."

Amatullah whimpers. "Allah will take care of you?"

"Yes, Amatullah." Her mom smiles and the young girl is amazed by her mother's strength. "If we make Allah happy, He will make us happy. And one day you will see that He only wants the best for you."

- -

Her mother's favorite chapter of the Quran is surah Ar-Rahman. She loves it because her daughter's voice is beautiful when she recites this surah, and because this chapter reminds her that she is alive to listen to her daughter recite the Quran for her. Amatullah notices that her mother enjoys listening to this surah, so she makes it a habit to recite it often.

It was easy for Amatullah to memorize this chapter. It is a short, beautiful chapter, and flows well together. Thirty-one of the verses are the same, a question:

                                                     فَبِأَيِّ آلَاءِ رَبِّكُمَا تُكَذِّبَان

               "So which of the favours of your Lord would you deny?"

It is raining outside, Amatullah sees from her seat by the window. The rain thrums against the window but her voice carries over it. She turns back to her mother, and there on her face she sees peace. She is on the sixtieth verse now.

                                                       هَلْ جَزَاءُ الْإِحْسَانِ إِلَّا الْإِحْسَانُ

                             "Is the reward for good anything but good?"

Suddenly, her mother's heart monitor gives a sharp beep. Amatullah's eyes flicker to it, and sees the lines lift in weak peaks, indicating that her mother's heart beats are becoming weaker. She shoots up from her chair and stands by her mother's side.

"Mama!" She cries, throat clogged with tears. "Mama!"

Amatullah does not think to call anyone, no doctor or nurse comes to her mind. She only sees her mother's eyes float towards the ceiling. Amatullah does not hear an alarm go off, nor does she hear the monitor default. All she hears are her cries and sobs which leave her throat feeling sore and all she feels is a tightness in her chest as if her heart has given out.

She does not even notice when the nurses and doctors rush in because at this point no doctor, no person on this Earth could help her now.

Her mother dies with a small smile on her face because she dies hearing her daughter's voice reciting her favorite surah.

- -

After her mother's death, Amatullah does not continue to recite the Quran. Each verse reminds her of her mother. Each chapter brings back memories of her mother's encouraging voice and her proud smile. Amatullah cries through her prayers, unable to recite the Quran. She gives up her prayers two weeks after her mother's death.

She knows that if her mother were alive, she would not approve. But that was the thing: her mother was not alive.

Amatullah goes to live with her aunt and uncle. They have three children and Amatullah realizes that her cousins are either awkward around her or ignore her completely. She is just an orphan girl unwelcome and unappreciated. She knows that her aunt and uncle have three mouths to feed and she feels like a burden, becoming the fourth.

She wonders why Allah took both her parents. Her dad had died in a car accident when she was two. She wonders what it would be like, having a father. But she never thinks too long on such things because she feels as if everything was meant to leave her, anyway.

Her mother used to tell her that it was okay. That everything belonged to Allah, so He alone, had the power and right to take it away from us. Amatullah still has her memories, though, so she still remembers what her mother looked and smelled and felt like. Would Allah take that away too? Or would she always remember?

She wanted to remember.

And she did, everyday. Every day before she left for school she watches her aunt run around, making breakfast. Her mother had done that before she became sick. Her aunt fixes their clothes and drops them off to school and reminds them to eat their lunch and behave. And Amatullah remembers that her mother did all of that too, and she holds back tears which only come out at night and are stifled by her pillow.

It seems to Amatullah that life is bleak without her mother. She eats, sleeps, and goes to school. But she does not feel the sunlight on her skin. The wind is cold and everytime it rained, her eyes water, as she remembers the droplets of water that clung to the window of the room her mother had died in. She begins to drift off into her own world, where her mother was alive and not sick. No, not sick at all.

But every time someone brings her back to the real world, her memory rushes back like a powerful wave of bitter saltwater. And the tears drip down her face, her lip quivers as she tries so desperately to hold back her tears. She is so sad and scared and desperate.

"Don't be afraid, Amatullah." Her mother would have said. "Allah is with us."

Sometimes, she sees beyond the haze of grief. Sometimes she catches people smiling and laughing, their wonderful voices dancing into her ears. Sometimes they turn their beaming faces to her and share their warmth and for one moment she can feel the sun's rays gracing her and making goosebumps pop up on her arms.

She wishes that she could smile like that again.

And one day she almost does, on her way to school. She has her eyes on the sidewalk, and the asphalt is dark and wet after the morning's rainstorm. Her aunt is sick and sends them off to walk to the bus stop and Amatullah's legs are tired and her arms ache because she is carrying two textbooks and a binder having forgotten her backpack at school. She tastes rainwater on her lips and stares up at the sky, wondering if she will make it to school before it rains.

Her eyes are still glued to the sky when she steps on the back of someone's foot, and nearly loses her balance. Her textbooks and binder tumble to the ground, splitting open and throwing up pages of loose leaf and worksheets. She is scrambling on the grass, frantically collecting her things before they seep into the wet ground. The person she had bumped into, crouches and she sees shiny white sneakers and a helping hand.

"Sorry!" She mumbles. "So sorry."

"It's fine." A girls's voice replies and she senses a smile in her voice but refuses to look up. "Here, let me help you."

And she does. Amatullah finally tucks her half soggy homework back into the folds of her textbooks and looks up to the girl who has helped her. She has dark skin and hazel eyes and Amatullah is relaxed in her presence. She grins at her and waves.

"See you."

She turns and walks off and Amatullah is grateful that there is still kindness in the world.

-

It is a January morning when Amatullah's eyes glance over to the calendar in the kitchen and stops on the Friday that marks the anniversary of her mother's death. It has been almost one year and she was still rigid and sad and wound up like a spring. She gulps and the glass of water she is holding trembles in her grasp. She does not want to live in a world without her mother.

She has so far and it is not getting better and Amatullah thinks that if it will be like this then it wasn't worth it. She wants her mom's arms around her, she wants her calm voice, she wants her mom back.

She is still staring at the calendar when the pot on the stove bubbles, making the lid clatter noisily, and she is reminded that she was boiling eggs for breakfast. She walks over to the pot, lifting the lid and watches the small white eggs jump in the steaming water. This reminds her of the story her mother used to tell her of the man who showed his daughter what happened when he boiled potatoes, eggs and coffee beans.

The potato went in hard and came out soft. Amatullah, who enjoyed mashed potatoes, did not see anything wrong with this, at the time. The egg went in fragile and came out hardened. The coffee beans were something else. It changed the water, instead of being changed by the water, and the result was rich and hot coffee.

Amatullah's mother had asked her: "Which one do you think you are?"

Amatullah did not understand the point of the story. She didn't even like coffee or eggs. But now she begins to understand the lesson behind the story and she thinks that her mother was like the coffee beans because she could change any situation with her positivity and attitude. Amatullah would have liked to be the egg but she felt that in reality, she might be the potato. She didn't feel strong, like a boiled egg.

"Mama, I'm the potato, aren't I?"

She did not expect an answer, as she stood in the empty kitchen whispering to a pot of boiled eggs. But she wondered anyway, if her mother was standing there beside her and combing her hair with her fingers and holding her daughter's head to her chest. And maybe even assuring her daughter that she was not an egg after all, but coffee beans, just like her.

-

There was a week left until the anniversary of her mother's death and Amatullah lay in bed listening to her aunt and uncle argue and scream over house bills. She was frozen, waiting for her mention, and there it was, as their voice dropped and they began to fight in hushed voices.

"When will your niece turn 18?" Her uncle asks, acidly. "Marry her off. We can't afford her."

"Don't be so harsh." Her aunt murmurs. "There's only a few years left. She will be gone soon."

Gone. Amatullah thinks over this word. She would not mind being gone and sleeping peacefully in her grave for the rest of existence. She thinks it will be easy, just swallow down a few pills like they do on TV and lie down and never face her aunt and uncle and teachers and anyone ever again. The first person she will look for on the Day of Judgement will be her mother.

She becomes obsessed with this prospect. Her aunt and uncle may not want her. Her teachers may not care. Her friends may walk on eggshells around her. Her cousins may treat her like a lamppost. But her mother would be happy to see her again. Her mother would open her arms and hold her close and swing her around like she used to when her mother was not weak from painkillers and a tumor growing in her brain.

She knows that suicide is wrong. But she aches to see her mother again and the bottle of sleeping pills is so light in her hands. Her reflection in the bathroom mirror is wide eyed and glowing at the idea that she may be reunited with her mother. The house is eerily silent and everyone is sleeping, as her hands desperately try to open the orange bottle. She just wants to quickly down them and fall asleep and never wake to the living world again. Her heart pounds.

She drops the bottle and the pills fly everywhere. The sound of dozens of capsules hitting the floor and scattering is loud in the bathroom, like gun shots. She freezes, and listens but the house is still and no one stirs from the commotion. She slowly looks down at the mess and wonders why she is doing this.

This isn't right, she thinks. This won't make my mom happy. This won't make Allah happy.

She sinks to her knees. She is not ready to disobey her Lord, she is not ready to ruin her relationship with Him. Amatullah begins to gather the pills, and stuff them back in the bottle, her. Her mother has always praised Allah, always looked so happy when she talked about His love and forgiveness and blessings. She loved Allah. Amatullah had also learned to love Allah through her.

"I thank Him everyday for you, Amatullah." Her mother used to tell her.

Amatullah cries then, and she sits there kneeling on the bathroom floor with tears dripping down her nose and face, mouth open in gasping sobs that make her chest hurt. Her hands grip the floor tiles, that are cold under her palms, and she rests her forehead on the bathroom counter.

"I love Him for granting me such a beautiful daughter." Her mother's voice whispers.

Amatullah wants to claw off her face because her mother loved Allah so much and thanked Him for her, but she had avoided praying to Allah, she avoided reciting the Quran for almost a whole year. And she had tried to end her life which was so precious to her mother. She was sorry, so sorry for forgetting her Lord, whom her mother had held onto above everything. Even in the end, she had died listening to His verses.

"I love you, Amatullah." Her mother had told her a few days before she left the world. "And I pray Allah keeps you happy."

-

On the anniversary of her mother's death, Amatullah visits her grave.

She sits in front of it and stares at the stone marker, at her mother's engraved name and the date on which she died on and does not know what to say. The grass is prickly underneath her and there are fluffy white clouds that drift slowly across the blue sky. Amatullah remembers the flatlining heart monitor and her mother's short last breaths as she clutches her hand.

"Mama," she begins, her voice raspy. "I hope you are happy.

"I hope you are where you want to be. I hope Allah is happy with you too, because I know that's what you wanted the most, right? I-I just want you to know that I'm trying, too. I'm trying to make Allah happy with me. I hope he will be happy with me, too."

She is holding her mother's mushaf in her hands, and she opens the book for the first time in almost a year. She flips to her mother's favorite chapter and begins to read, and her voice carries and drifts up to the brilliant sky and Amatullah imagines that Allah is there in the clouds, listening to her recite the Quran.

This time she makes it to the end of the surah.

This time she reads it for Allah.

She feels happy.