Smell the Flowers, Blow Out the Candles 

“…and then she refused to pick up her dirty tissues. Honestly, I wanted to swing my mop at her.” Halima Bi gave a frustrated sigh down the phone as Zara heard her ninety-fifth cleaning story, spanning over a decade.

Zara was squeezing the phone between her shoulder and ear as she listened to her neighbor vent, her palms beginning to ache. With the other hand, she massaged her lower back, wincing in pain. “You know, I think you need a career change…” she began.

“Mama!” Zara’s six-year-old son Abdullah appeared in the room, bawling his eyes out.

“What happened to him now?” Halima Bi asked in her ear, sounding even more frustrated than before.

“Mama! Sofia won’t let me put ketchup in my sandwich! She pushed me out of the kitchen!”

“Mama! He wanted five spoonfuls in his sandwich,” Sofia appeared, a butter knife in one hand and a spoon in the other.

“Five spoonfuls? He is mad!” Halima Bi gasped.

“Not five spoons. I said four!” Abdullah insisted, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“Don’t use your sleeve—get a tissue. Both of you go to the kitchen…I’m coming in two minutes,” Zara said, still pressing the phone next to her ear.

She bent down to get on Abdullah’s level, his face puffy with anger. “Smell the flowers. Blow out the candles. Smell the…flowers,” he said, his face releasing the anger. “Will you make me a sandwich, Mum? And a nicer sandwich?”

“Yes, sure…”

“What do you mean by a ‘nicer’ sandwich? I made it so neatly!” Sofia glared at her brother. “And Mama, why are you telling us to leave? Who are you talking to? Are you talking about something private?” She shifted her body on one foot and raised her eyebrows at her mother. The kitchen utensils in her hands looked massive.

Zara peered at her 10-year-old daughter and wondered how she’d been told that this kid of hers had a speech delay, but now was not the time to showcase her joy.

“Oh. She is sassy,” Halima Bi whispered in her ear.

“It’s Halima Bi. Nothing really private, sweetie, just sharing. I’ll be there in a minute.” Over her years of parenting, she had learned that sometimes you just have to be honest with your kids.

“What does ‘private’ mean?” Abdullah looked between his sister and mother.

“Like secret info,” Sofia rolled her eyes and turned towards the kitchen.

Abdullah turned to follow his sister, then turned around and shouted, “Oh, say hello to Halima Bi from me! Tell her I’m missing her cookies!”

“Hello, my baby!” Halima Bi screamed down the phone, destroying Zara’s eardrum. “He’s welcome to come over any evening. I’ll bake some for him,” Halima said, her tone warm.

Halima Bi lived next door—they had been neighbors for just about twelve years. Halima Bi was the most perfect Pakistani aunty, the mother figure Zara had missed out on and yearned for her entire life. To Zara and the kids, she was family.

“Thank you, Halima Bi. Maybe not today—they have homework,” Zara said, straightening the cushions on the sofa. With each bend, her back felt tighter and sore.

“Speaking of today, have you forgotten the date?”

“Date? Oh yeah. No, I’ve not forgotten,” Zara peered at the wall calendar for the fifty-sixth time that day.

“Oh, come on, what if Zulfi has a surprise for you? Don’t sound so disappointed.”

“Zulfi? Surprise? That is impossible!” Zara rolled her eyes with annoyance. “Plus, he’s working late tonight so won’t be home ’till 11p.m”

By the fourth wedding anniversary, they had both gotten used to Zulfi and his lack of wanting to celebrate. And every year after that, Halima Bi would purposely remind Zara, which increased the disappointment.

It was something she hugely missed from her life with her parents and siblings. They would celebrate every milestone—be it big or small. Any excuse to throw a party and get dressed and take pictures, despite her father being quite conservative and strict in some matters—Zara wasn’t allowed to wear makeup or even go out with friends. She desperately craved that freedom as a child, to express her unfiltered thoughts and dreams and explore life on her terms.

And that was what she found in Zulfi. A freedom she had never known before—his enveloping calm and his reassurance that she could truly be herself, to savor the moment. And yet, sometimes, in brief moments of solitude, she found herself missing her previous life—she almost wished Zulfi was more like that.

A key turned in the lock, interrupting their conversation.

“Alright, Ali’s back from football practice—I’m gonna feed these kids before they turn into mini-Hulks and swallow me whole!”

They said their goodbyes just as twelve-year-old Ali walked through the living room door, bringing with him the fresh fragrance of mud, sweat, and grass. His hair was disheveled, and he threw his kit in the corner of the room and then launched himself into his mother’s arms.

Zara squeezed him back, trying her best not to inhale. “How many goals?”

“Two,” he murmured.

“Woohoo!”

“Yeah, I know. I’m just so tired. And I have biology homework to do.”

“Do you want me to wake you up early so you can do it then?”

“Yeah. What’s to eat?”

“You’ll see in ten minutes. You go and get changed.”

“Honestly, I can’t move.” He shifted his weight so that Zara sank deeper into the sofa. She winced.

“Aww, so sorry, Mama. Is it your back again? I totally forgot.”

“Don’t worry. Shower, then go to bed. I’ll wake you up for Isha.”

Zara was putting the dishes away when a gigantic wave of tiredness washed over her, making her yawn. Tiredness was always followed by annoyance. In her head, she was thinking, Thank God it’s the weekend—no early morning school run. But then she was reminded of all the cleaning and ironing that was waiting for her, and she groaned. The kids also had a picnic planned for tomorrow afternoon, so she would be preparing snacks for that as well.

The washing machine beeped, announcing the end of a load. She bent down to put the dryer on and felt a sneeze coming. She immediately straightened up and sneezed into her elbow. The kids’ uniforms went in for the next wash.

She could hear the TV from the living room and Abdullah’s airplane sounds as he raced around the room with two paper airplanes in his hands. Sofia was perched on a stool in the kitchen, bent over the laptop doing some English literature homework. It was only 8:30 p.m, yet Zara knew it would be an eternity before she finished all the chores and got the kids into bed. She would then pray, do her skincare routine (if she remembered), and by that time, Zulfi would be home from work.

“Mama, another word for ‘yell,’ please?” Sofia interrupted Zara’s checklist of life.

“Scream, shout, shriek?” Zara closed the washer and headed toward the kitchen.

“’Shriek’ is a good one. What about ‘pretty’?”

“Elegant, attractive?”

She and Sofia would do this often—so much so that Zara felt like a walking thesaurus. She opened the fridge, thinking about tomorrow’s breakfast situation. Two tomatoes and two eggs stared back at her. Tomorrow would mean doing the groceries.

“What does attractive mean?” Sofia asked.

And she was also a dictionary! Just then, Abdullah came flying into the kitchen, diving low with his planes.

“It means…” The open fridge stared back at her. Grocery shopping with the kids would be too chaotic. And expensive.

“It means…why aren’t you in bed, you two?” Zulfi’s jolly voice rang through the kitchen. His tall frame appeared in the doorway as both kids shrieked and jumped up to hug him.

“It can’t be 11 o’clock already?” Zara asked, turning to look at the clock in surprise. She turned back, and their gazes met—his face perched on top of the kids’ heads as they snuggled into him. They smiled. His eyes were tired but soft. They had always been soft, since the day they met.

She caught her reflection in the mirror across the room and brushed her fingers through the front of her hair, straightening the necklace at her throat.

She then closed the fridge and started clearing up the countertops, arms working in a zigzag motion. How were things still not in their places when I spent all day putting things back? She winced as the cleaning motions strained her back. And how was it possible to have so many things in the kitchen to begin with? These questions glided through her mind.

“It’s good you’re home early, Daddy! We get to see you before bed,” she heard Sofia’s loud whisper.

“Yeah, Daddy! Mama was getting that angry fighter look on her face again!” Abdullah said.

“Reported live from Abdullah Studios…” Sofia teased.

“Oh, was she now?” She heard Zulfi chuckle, and the annoyance settled deeper into her bones.

“We will have to fix that, won’t we?”

“Yes. I think we made too much of a mess and she was very cross,” Abdullah whispered.

Zara felt a tightness in her throat listening to her kids. The angry fighter look started off as a joke… until eventually, she truly did become the angry fighter—always yelling and screaming. She desperately tried not to be this way, but it just happened. Guilt settled inside her.

She was so deep in her thoughts, she hadn’t even realized that the little two had exited the kitchen and Zulfi was still standing in the kitchen doorway, watching her. He reached forward, gripped her hands, and tugged her toward him.

“How come you’re home early?” Zara asked, leaning into him—the familiar rusty workplace smell from his suit filling the air between them.

“I managed to sneak out.”

“Liar.”

He laughed, and his eyes smiled.

“Sit down, you must be hungry,” Zara peeled herself away from his embrace and went back to clearing the countertop. The dryer started pinging.

“Actually…I have plans. Let’s go out tonight.”

“Out?” A flicker of excitement blossomed in her chest as she glanced again at the calendar by the fridge. He remembered!

“What about the kids? I still have so much to do…” she said, as she tidied up Sofia’s homework mess.

“Don’t worry, that’s all sorted. You just get ready.”

Zara rushed up the stairs and flew into her room, throwing open her wardrobe to find something pretty to wear. She wanted to look nice—no, not nice, she wanted to look pretty—feel pretty. They hardly ever went out together. He was always working late, or something involving the kids popped up. For a few years, they struggled financially, and there really wasn’t anything left at the end of the month that they could enjoy. And with the children, it was so difficult finding time for each other.

Motherhood swallows you whole, and when it spits you back out, you have no idea who you are or what you’re meant to be doing.

Well, at the moment you’re supposed to be getting ready for your anniversary date. Zara grinned at the thought. Her mood had lifted slightly. She tried to hold onto it mentally as she pulled out a black dress from the back of her wardrobe, then suddenly got the urge to check on the kids.

Abdullah was lying with Ali in his room, curled in next to him while he was asleep. She could see the faint light of the iPad gleaming under the duvet as Abdullah pretended to sleep, his eyes squeezed shut. A part of her wanted to go and take it off him, but then she smiled, slowly closed the door, and moved to the next room. A huge pile of creased-up clothes stared back at her in the corner as she entered.

“Mama, are you going?” Sofia whispered across the room, lying in her bed reading with a torchlight.

“Yes, baby. Do you need anything?”

“You know Ayesha from my class?” she asked instead, ignoring her question.

“The new girl?”

“Yeah. She was saying how her mum and dad had a date night last Saturday. She said her mum looked so pretty.”

“Hmm…”

“I’m sure you’ll look pretty too, Mama.” Zara could hear the smile in her voice in the darkness.

Back in her room, she got dressed, and as she tried to tackle the tangled-up mess of a bun on her head, her eyes landed on her makeup bag. Apart from concealer, blush, and lip glosses, she hardly got the time to do a full face of makeup.

She heard Zulfi call her from the bottom of the stairs, telling her to hurry up. She hated it when he rushed her—it just made her flustered and overwhelmed.

Zara quickly pulled out her makeup products and started the process. As she added colour to her face, excitement bubbled in the bottom of her tummy. She couldn’t believe he had remembered.

She reached for the lip gloss but then stopped. The 42-year-old Zara inside her didn’t feel like wearing lip gloss tonight. She wanted to feel good—memorable. She smiled when she finally found the ruby-red lipstick she was looking for, and then her father’s angry face appeared in the video album of her mind. But tonight, she wasn’t going to think about that—or anything that could upset her.

She had desperately prayed for a man like Zulfi in her early twenties, and God had made their paths cross in the most bizarre way. She sometimes thought she didn’t deserve someone like him, and yet other times, their differences overshadowed everything, and she thought they couldn’t possibly go on like this. Makeup done, she grabbed her jacket, clutch, and sandals and made her way downstairs.

Her phone rang for the third time, and when she didn’t answer, it started to beep, notifying her of messages coming through. Obviously, it was Zulfi waiting. The buckle on her heels slipped out of her hand, and she frustratedly tried again to tie it. After three children, her belly wasn’t like before, so it was always a struggle bending down to tie shoelaces or buckles.

Her phone went off again, and she lost it. Huffing, she got up, grabbed her clutch, and flew out the door. She obviously didn’t get the satisfaction of slamming it.

“Chill out, why do you keep calling?” She hadn’t meant to lash out.

“What took you so long?” He sat in the driver’s seat, buckled up, looking at her—confused and slightly annoyed. But when his gaze ran over her face and hair, his eyes lit up in surprise and his face softened.

“Ooooh. The paintbrushes came out,” he chuckled.

“I just thought I’d make some effort tonight,” she said, feeling shy all of a sudden. But then she remembered she was also annoyed. “You could have at least told me you had something planned. You know how much I hate it when you rush me!”

“Ah, yeah, sorry. I wasn’t meaning to rush you—I just wanted to know how much longer,” he said, pulling out of the driveway.

It was dark, apart from the odd street lamp. Despite it being a Friday evening, no kids were in the area, and the majority of the house lights were off. Most of their neighbours had young kids who had grown up with Ali, Sofia, and Abdullah.

“You could have at least changed your clothes, you know,” she tried a teasing tone. “We’ll be looking like such an odd pair.”

“Why? Do I smell?” He sniffed.

“No, I’m just saying.”

“It’s okay, no one’s gonna notice.”

But I will notice, a voice whispered in her mind. She didn’t want to talk about clothes because she knew the direction that conversation would go in. She had grown up with a shopaholic mother who was crazy about clothes and shoes, and it wasn’t until after marriage that Zara had realised it was not normal to always be shopping. And yet Zulfi, on the other extreme, could pass the year in four pairs of trousers and a few T-shirts.

She crossed her legs, and her sandal hit something soft on the floor of the car. She peered forward, trying to see in the darkness.

“What’s that on the floor?”

“Oh, nothing,” he responded, glancing at her before his eyes went back to the road.

Had he bought me a gift? Giddiness filled her chest. After all these years—finally!

The car bumped along the road as she smiled in the dark. They started talking about the children, things that needed to be done around the house, his work—until Zara couldn’t take it much longer… she had to ask.

“So… tell me…” she turned to look at him in the dark interior of the car. The street lamps lit up his face every so often.

“Tell you what?”

“How did you possibly remember the date today?” Zara giggled.

“Date? What date?”

“Oh, come on, don’t lie!” She laughed now.

A silent few seconds passed, and then she reached for his arm.

“Zulfi?”

“What date? Have I forgotten something?” he asked seriously, his eyes wandering around, deep in thought.

They had stopped at a red light. His illuminated face turned toward her. She watched the confusion turn to blankness.

Oh my God. He truly hadn’t remembered.

A painful lump foamed in her throat, and her hands became clammy. Hot tears stung her eyes, and before she could angrily brush them away, they slid down her cheeks. She was filled with hurt and embarrassment. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. She wanted to hide away somewhere. She needed to get out.

“Zara…” he was calling her above the noise in her head, but she couldn’t comprehend. “Zara?” He touched her arm. Her shoulder. Her hand.

She moved away.

Suddenly she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

The sense of betrayal was suffocating her.

The lights turned amber. She unbuckled herself and swung open the door as fast as she could. A stabbing sensation ran up her back. She heard her name being called. Car horns filled the air. The cold night air stung her hot, wet cheeks. She hurriedly started walking. The wind buzzed in her ears.

Smell the flowers. Blow out the candles. Smell the…flowers.