Hoping Differently

Before, I thought a house changed when you repainted the walls, when you moved the furniture, or when you bought a new sofa.

I didn't know that a house could change while everything stayed exactly in the same place.

At our house, the sofa is still against the wall, the table is still near the window, Abi's shoes are still stored too close to the door.

And yet, for some time now, our house is no longer quite the same.

It started slowly.

At first, Oummi only said she was tired.

I didn't find that strange.

Adults are often tired.

Oummi said she was tired when she had worked a lot, when she had slept badly, or when my little brother had woken up several times during the night.

So when she started sitting down more often, I didn't really think about it.

One Wednesday, I asked her if she wanted to come with me to buy paper for my presentation.

She was lying on the sofa.

She answered me, not today, my darling.

I asked her, tomorrow?

She smiled.

We'll see tomorrow.

I didn't like that answer very much.

We'll see tomorrow, that often meant that no one really knew.

The next day, she didn't come either.

Abi accompanied me.

In the car, I looked out the window almost the whole way.

Then I asked, why is Oummi always tired?

Abi kept his eyes on the road.

She is sick right now.

I knew the word sick.

I had already been sick.

Once, I had such a high fever that I didn't even feel like watching television.

I drank a lot of water, took medicine, slept for two days, then I went back to school.

So I asked, how many days will she stay home?

Abi didn't answer right away.

We don't know yet.

Another answer I didn't like.

The days passed.

Oummi had appointments.

Sometimes, she left in the morning with Abi and came back several hours later.

Other times, she only came back in the evening.

One day, I heard her talking on the phone.

She was saying words I didn't know.

Tests, results, treatment.

I didn't listen for long.

Well, not on purpose.

I still stayed in the hallway for a few seconds.

Then I left before she could see me.

From that day on, I started noticing many things.

The way Abi asked Oummi several times if she had eaten.

The way Oummi said, I'm fine, even though I could clearly see that it wasn't always fine.

The conversations that stopped when I entered a room.

The phone calls after which Abi remained silent.

And that little box of medicine that had appeared on the kitchen cabinet.

I didn't like that box.

It hadn't done anything, after all.

But I didn't like it.

One afternoon, I came home from school with a drawing I had made in class.

I had worked on it for almost an hour.

It was a house surrounded by trees, with a big sun in the corner.

The teacher had written, very nice work.

I wanted to show it to Oummi.

I went into her room.

She was sleeping.

I approached.

Oummi?

She opened her eyes.

Yes, my darling?

Look what I made.

She sat up a little.

I showed her my drawing.

She smiled.

It's beautiful.

I knew she meant it.

But her eyes were almost closing.

I asked, do you want me to tell you how I made it?

She looked at the drawing again.

Then she told me softly, can you tell me later? I'm really tired.

I answered, yes, it's okay.

Then I left.

I went to my room.

I put the drawing on my desk.

And I started to cry.

Not much.

Just enough to be annoyed at myself.

Because Oummi was sick.

And I was sad because of a drawing.

I told myself it was selfish.

So I wiped my eyes before anyone could see me.

For several days, I tried to be perfect.

I put my things away before being asked.

I didn't complain when Abi told me to go to bed.

When I had a problem at school, I kept it to myself.

Even when my little brother annoyed me, I tried not to argue with him.

I wanted to help.

Above all, I didn't want to add anything more.

One evening, I was in the kitchen with Oummi.

She was sitting while I put away the cutlery.

She looked at me.

Sabrina?

Yes?

Are you okay?

I answered very quickly, yes.

She continued to look at me.

Then she asked, why have you become so well-behaved all of a sudden?

I stopped putting things away.

I'm always well-behaved.

She smiled.

Of course.

I knew she didn't believe me.

So I picked up the cutlery again.

She asked me, did something happen at school?

I answered, no.

That was a lie.

A girl in my class had said something that had hurt me a few days earlier.

But it seemed ridiculous to me now.

Oummi was sick.

I wasn't going to talk to her about that.

She asked me, are you sure?

I nodded.

Then she said a sentence I didn't expect.

Just because I'm sick doesn't mean you have to stop being my daughter.

I turned around.

She still had that same look.

Tired.

But the same.

I asked her, what does that mean?

It means you still have the right to have problems, to be sad, to get angry, to come and tell me a story that's too long when I'm tired.

I lowered my eyes.

She added, I am still your Oummi.

I don't know why, but that sentence made me cry.

This time, a lot.

I went closer to her.

She held me against her.

I was careful not to hurt her.

I told her, I'm afraid of making you even more tired.

She ran her hand through my hair.

You don't tire me because you need me.

I stayed against her.

Then, without really thinking, I asked the question.

The question I had kept in my head for days.

Oummi, are you going to die?

She didn't answer right away.

I felt her hand stop in my hair.

I wished I could take back my question, pretend I had never asked it.

But it was too late.

She breathed softly.

Then she told me, I don't know what Allah has written for me.

I felt my stomach tighten.

She continued, the doctors are treating me, I'm taking my treatment, and we ask Allah to grant me healing.

I looked at her.

But will you get better?

She looked at me for a long time.

Then she said, In sha' Allah.

That evening, I understood something I had never really understood before.

Adults don't know all the answers.

Even Oummi.

Even Abi.

There are things that only Allah knows.

From that day on, I started making many supplications for Oummi.

I asked Allah to heal her.

In the morning, after prayer, in my bed, in the car.

Sometimes even in the middle of the day, for no reason.

I thought of her, so I asked Allah to heal her.

Some days were better.

One morning, she came to sit with us for breakfast.

She even laughed because Abi had completely messed up the pancakes.

I had never been so happy to see someone laugh because of a burnt pancake.

Another day, she came to pick me up from school.

When I saw her near the gate, I ran towards her.

You came!

She laughed.

Yes, I came.

I wanted to take her hand.

Then I stopped.

I didn't want to hurt her.

She noticed.

So she took mine.

We walked slowly, very slowly.

Before, I would probably have found that annoying.

This time, I wished the walk would last a long time.

There were also bad days.

Days when Oummi stayed in her room a lot.

Days when Abi talked less.

Days when I heard him say on the phone, yes, okay, then nothing for several seconds.

I hated those silences.

One evening, I went into Oummi's room.

She was sitting near the window.

I asked her, what are you doing?

Nothing.

I sat down next to her.

Can I do nothing with you?

She smiled.

So we stayed there.

Without talking.

Before, I thought that being with someone meant necessarily doing something.

Talking, playing, going out, watching something.

But that evening, I understood that we could simply stay together.

I rested my head against her shoulder.

After a moment, she asked me, do you remember when you were little and you refused to sleep without me telling you a story?

I answered, I didn't do that.

She laughed.

Every night.

Maybe once.

Sabrina.

I smiled.

She told me that sometimes, she had to start the same story three times because I pretended not to have heard the end.

I asked her, can you tell me one now?

She rested her head against the back of the chair.

I think tonight, it's you who will have to tell the story.

Me?

Yes.

I didn't know what to tell.

So I made up a completely silly story about a cat who wanted to become a baker.

At first, Oummi was smiling.

Then she really laughed.

And so did I.

My story was so bad that it became funny.

When I finished, she told me, you tell stories very well.

That's not true.

Maybe, but I really liked it anyway.

The weeks continued.

I stopped counting the appointments.

I stopped asking every evening, when will you get better?

Not because I didn't want her to get better anymore.

I wanted it more than anything.

But I had understood that no one could give me a date.

So I started doing something else.

When Oummi had energy, I took advantage of it.

When she wanted to talk, I listened.

When she was tired, I let her rest.

And when I had something to tell her, I told her anyway.

Because she had asked me to.

One day, I finally told her what had happened with the girl in my class.

Oummi listened to me until the end.

Then she gave me her opinion.

Like before.

At that moment, for a few minutes, I almost forgot that she was sick.

It was just Oummi.

Then there was a period when she had to stay away for several days.

Abi said the doctors wanted to keep her close to them.

I didn't like coming home without her.

Everything was too quiet.

Even my little brother made less noise.

In the evening, I sometimes walked past her room.

The door was open.

Her book was on the nightstand.

A small piece of paper stuck out between two pages.

I knew exactly where she had stopped.

I told myself she would start again at that page.

So I didn't touch it.

A few days later, we went to see her.

She looked even more tired.

But when she saw me, she smiled.

I sat down next to her.

I asked her, do you want a story?

She answered, the one about the baker cat?

No, that one was really too bad.

She laughed softly.

So I told her another one.

A better one, I think.

Before leaving, I told her, I make a lot of duas for you.

She answered me, I know.

Then she added, keep going.

I nodded.

I asked her, do you make duas too?

She smiled.

A lot.

I didn't ask her which ones.

I don't know how much time passed after that.

When you're nine years old, some weeks seem to last three days, others seem to last a whole year.

I only know that many things have changed.

Abi learned to prepare my breakfast.

At first, he always put way too much milk in my bowl.

Even now, he sometimes puts too much.

He says that one day, he'll find the right amount.

I'm not convinced.

The house has become quieter.

Not all the time.

My little brother knows very well how to keep a house from being completely quiet.

But some moments are different.

In Oummi's room, the curtains often stay open.

Her book is still on the nightstand.

The little piece of paper still sticks out between the same pages.

No one has moved it.

Me neither.

One morning, I went into the kitchen.

Abi was there.

He was holding Oummi's favorite cup.

A white cup with a small crack near the handle.

He wasn't drinking.

He was just looking at it.

When he saw me, he smiled.

Well, he tried.

Then he put the cup away in the cupboard.

At the very top.

I asked him, why are you putting it there?

He answered, so it doesn't break.

I watched the cupboard door close.

I didn't say anything.

There are many things I no longer ask.

Not because I don't have questions anymore.

I still have a huge number of them.

But some questions simply stay with me for a while.

I continue to make my supplications.

Before, when I thought of Oummi, I almost always thought of later.

When she gets better.

When she comes back.

When we do this again.

When we do that again.

Now, when I think of her, I also think of before.

Of the way she said my name when she knew I had done something wrong.

Of her hand looking for mine near the school.

Of her evening stories.

Of the time she laughed so hard because of my baker cat that she had to stop to catch her breath.

Sometimes, I go into her room.

I sit on the edge of the bed.

Not for long.

Just a few minutes.

I look at her book.

I watch the light pass through the curtains.

Then I leave.

For a long time, I waited for everything to become exactly as before.

I think a part of me is still waiting for it.

But something has changed.

I haven't stopped hoping.

I haven't stopped invoking Allah.

I have simply learned to hope differently.

And sometimes, in the evening, when the house becomes very quiet, I close my eyes.

I think of Oummi.

Then I start a story in my head.

Once upon a time, there was a cat who wanted to become a baker.

And even now, I still think it's a really bad story.