I took Nalal outside to the old wooden bench beneath the sprawling acacia tree. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky in soft oranges and purples. We sat quietly for a moment, the weight of everything unspoken hanging heavy between us.
"They don't love us," I said, voice steady but aching. "They only love our money."
Nalal, my little one, looked up at me with eyes wiser than her years. Softly, she said, "Granny, I know that."
My heart shattered in that moment.
"Grandfather only calls me to his office to sign money," she whispered.
The pain stabbed deep. I felt my chest tighten and the tears burned behind my eyes. Without thinking twice, I pulled out my phone. My fingers trembled as I typed the words that would change everything:
Husband, I hereby declare our divorce.
I hit 'send' and sat back, the enormity of the moment crashing down on me. I packed my belongings quietly that night and left. I went to my estate — never looking back toward London.
I didn't care how he would find out, whether through the internet, the television, or the whispers of neighbors. I had done it according to Islamic law—divorce can be declared verbally, and I had spoken mine loud and clear.
I wasn't afraid. After twenty-three years under their roof, I was exhausted. I'd waited for a reason to break free, to no longer be seen as just a wife or a daughter-in-law but as a woman who deserved respect and freedom. Now I had my reason.
I walked away with half of the clan's wealth. And still, shameless as ever, Mr. Abdul continued dragging Halal to his office to sign checks.
That went on for a while, but I was terrified. By the time Nalal grew up, she'd be bankrupt. After all, the money—three billion—could vanish in a blink if they kept at it.
Legally, I couldn't stop Abdul. After all, Nalal was his granddaughter.
Until the day Sibrin stepped in.
She placed ironclad restrictions on Nalal's wealth. The money would only be accessible when she became an adult.
Mr. Abdul lost his mind. Furious, he stormed to confront Sibrin.
But Sibrin was different—American, sharp, unyielding. She looked him straight in the eye and threatened to sue him in court if he crossed the line again.
Sometimes, I wonder if she made a mistake threatening that old man. A few days later, Sibrin died in a car crash.
No one knows what—or who—was behind it. Only God holds those answers.
And in a family as broken as ours, where the Goodchild bloodline is nearly extinct, with only two grandchildren left—Nalal, and her half-older brother David, Sibrin's bastard—who truly benefits from this tragedy?