Our First Love

 

The door is ajar, a gentle breeze through an open window tapping it softly against the frame. Not quite strong enough to close it, not quite weak enough to leave it be. Eventually, the tapping stops. I know the door is not shut, so the gust must have gone. The room settles back into silence, as though whatever had been trying to get my attention has finally moved on. The heat through the pane feels comforting. I close my eyes to allow the sun in, to warm places that had gone cold. I play with my hair, gathering a small clump of golden strands and drawing them through my fingers from root to tip, teasing out the knots as I go. A childhood habit that never left me. With my eyes still shut, I turn toward the source of the comfort, but all I see is orange. Sunlight bleeds through my eyelids, flooding everything in a tsunami of energy colour —mandarins, clementine, and tangerines hurling toward me at great speed. But my paradise of peace in the sun is disturbed as the door taps once more, as though it is screaming in my ear to get up and shut it, or else it will haunt me forever should I continue to ignore it. I ignore it out of exhaustion. I don’t believe I left it open, so why should I be the one to close it? A sharp pain pulses through my head. The sun is too much now, even behind closed eyes. So, I turn away and open my eyes to a rainbow of rays ricocheting off the walls of the room. Tap, tap, tap… just as I am about to rise and shut it, my daughter walks through the doorway and closes it behind her. Peace at last. Boy, was I wrong in my belief? The kettle is shaking, enough water for two. I stay in my seat as she goes about her business rattling around in the kitchen of the open plan. I keep my back to her, but I know her every movement—the bread sliding into the slots, the toaster clicking on, all too familiar from our breakfast routine.

 

Then she joins me on the loveseat by the window. Only the one cuppa, none for me, as though I am not there and so no offering was made. The crunch of the first bite of toast is inviting as the butter melts across its surface. My mouth waters at the thought of it. It has been so long since I last had a slice. And yet my stomach has no pangs of hunger, as though it has gone so long without food that it no longer knows how to grumble for it, or perhaps my appetite is already satisfied. My cup overfloweth. Which makes me wonder why I am still here, sitting with my daughter at sunrise, while the rest of the family lie snug in their beds, turning their dreams into reality without even knowing it. I always thought the “letting go” was her issue, but now I wonder if I might be the problem. Or perhaps we are both finding it hard to break our bond. After all, we did form something of a love affair, in our own way. But it is over now with her head buried in that phone of hers, scrolling TikTok to tune out any thoughts of me, or any of her own intrusive thoughts. And I have been intrusive, testing her tolerance, so who could blame her for blanking me out completely. And she really threw the baby out with the bath water on the last day of May when she erased any trace of our existence to make a fresh start. I wish her well in her future endeavours, but all is not lost—she kept my name, my full name, as though she found worth in carrying it forward.

 

I first came as her saviour, but she now sees me and my stories of woe as something like the devil incarnate, as I made her write them repeatedly in varying versions each time—from different perspectives and new angles. Some changes were small, others drastically different but all done to train her brain for the task in hand. But I fear I may have drained what was once a deep well within her, as we both got a little lost in the making—the making of the ark, the making of the game, the making of a platform where she could share her story. But I, in my so-called wisdom, stole her thunder as I ran through her words like a red thread, attempting to keep a straight line of sense but the disorder left me zigzagging all over the shop, and in my wandering, I dragged her down into the depths of despair and disappointment. But she is fighting back against the odds to make this story her own. She has made a switch-up; I am no longer the star of the show but rather a supporting character, thank God. I smile at my female ego and at the thought it is every bit as easily bruised as the male. I could always find another being to play host to my stories but hand on heart it wouldn't be the same, nothing could compare to what my daughter has built here as it's above and beyond anything I could have ever imagined—a magnificent masterpiece. If I were to create a new word to describe her and her creation, I'd call it assumfabularia (uh-SOOM-fab-yoo-LAIR-ee-uh) which means a magnificent idea or belief that begins as an assumption but grows into something dazzling, imaginative, and larger than life.

 

I know my time here is drawing close to a close, but not an end, never an end. I take great comfort in the knowledge that our togetherness had a purpose and was part of a plan beyond our imaginations. Unfortunately, she can't see it yet as she is too close to the trees to admire her garden. All she feels is trunk and bark but one day she will step back from her Eden and take it in, in all its glory and come to the realisation her role was more than just instrumental, she is the gust that taps on the door in the hour of Revelation.

 

We rarely recognise our role while we are still playing it. But my daughter is ready for the task as it rests with her: to fill these four chambers of five rooms with her own words—words hard won through a decade of effort, patience, and quiet persistence. And with a quick glance inside, I can already see she will champion that task and, in doing so, make me prouder than I am today—if such a thing is even possible. But if I know my daughter, and I do, there will be some surprises along the way that will turn life on its head for those who meet her in person—or happen to find themselves wandering into her online oasis, named Maryam.

 

“I love you,” she says, as though she has been listening to my ramblings.

“I love you too,” I reply, hoping she can still hear me somewhere in her mind.

“I don’t think I will ever stop hearing you. But it’s time to tone it down and let it slip softly into the background of life, no longer so loud that it drives me around the bend again.”

“It wasn’t me who drove you there—you were behind the wheel all along.”

“Me and you… arguing over who’s really driving, right?”

 

“It's time so...it is time."

 

"After a decade invested in us, and so many words lost to the abyss, it’s time to call it a day."

 

"I only hope I can steady the rod, as you didn’t give me a fish; you taught me how to fish. Now, I must wait patiently for a bite."

 

"You got this, my child"

 

"And more will come because you built it"

 

"God, I hope so"