When Hassan flew to America to win back his wife, I had no expectations. I knew my son—sweet words on the tongue, silence in the soul. But fate, for once, delivered something good: Sibrin got pregnant.
The news lit a quiet candle in my heart. For once, life had dared to grow where there was only survival. The Goodchild family rejoiced. I rejoiced. But the Abduls? They boiled with quiet rage.
Hassan was summoned back to London, not for celebration—but for punishment.
In front of the entire family, his father raised a cane and struck him with no mercy.
"How dare you impregnate her?"
"She is a slave."
"A black woman. Do you want to stain the Abdul bloodline?"
Those words didn't shock me. What shocked me was the silence that followed. Nobody defended my son. Nobody reminded them that Sibrin was his wife. That her child was their blood.
And again, I was left asking: Why is it that when Hassan stumbles, he's punished like a stray?
Why do his mistakes draw the whip, while my husband's other children sip tea from golden cups?
Sibrin called often, worried and alone. Hassan ignored her. She returned to London on her own, greeted not with joy—but coldness. Yet her father continued funding the Abduls, as if loyalty could be bought.
Mr. Abdul, that man… he can kneel for coins. When asked why Hassan wasn't by his wife's side, he told a lie dressed as concern: "She's too young to carry safely. It's for her health."
Naïve Sibrin believed it.
But she surprised them all again.
As per Abdul tradition, their mothers stay hidden—barefoot, silent, veiled behind walls.
But Sibrin? She did the unthinkable.
As a pregnancy gift, her father retired. And she—yes, she—took over the Goodchild Corporation.
That power shift cracked their dusty codes in half.
Suddenly, Hassan returned to her side.
Her ex-boyfriend tried to warn her: "He only came back for the company."
But she dismissed it as jealousy.
And when she delivered a baby girl, nobody from the Abdul side lifted a finger.
No one wanted to carry the child.
No one offered a name.
So I did.
I named her Razila Nalal Abdul—a name with pride, a name with power.
Because if the Abduls would not see her, I would.
And she was a she.
A little girl born of shame and silence, yet destined to shake the stone in their hearts.
To follow her husband's traditions, Sibrin tried to fit in. She placed family first. She let Hassan fly alone to America to manage her empire. Her money flew his other wives in like queens. They basked in her gold.
He no longer called. "Too busy," he said.
No visits. No interest. No shame.
Two years passed. Nalal grew.
And Sibrin… broke.
Her father warned her gently about Hassan's ways, but she still clung to hope—until illness dragged her to America on the pretext of visiting her father.
What she found shattered the last pieces of denial. Her husband was living large, not for her, not for Nalal, but for himself—and the women she unknowingly sponsored.
She froze the bank accounts. Removed him from her company.
And just like that, power returned to its rightful hands.
She came back to London for a brief rest, leaving Nalal with me.
And the girl—oh, this girl.
She is my rebellion.
Her laughter breaks the silence. Her little feet echo across the marble like defiance. I keep her close. Always. Because I know what this house is. I know how they look at her. I know they do not love her.
Then… Mr. Goodchild died.
The Abduls attended the funeral with rehearsed sorrow and empty suits, only because there was a will to be read.
I did not go.
When the will was announced, the room stiffened.
Nalal inherited $3 billion and 50% of the company's shares.
The Abduls smiled at last—but not for her.
They smiled at the money.
They even received "appreciation" funds for their fake investments.
Did they deserve it?
Absolutely not.
But fate has a strange way of rewarding parasites with crumbs while saving banquets for the brave.