By 7:00 AM, the sacred silence had given way to a beautiful cacophony. “Mama, where’s my uniform skirt?” twelve-year-old Zara wailed. “Ibrahim took my hairbrush!” nine-year-old Layla accused. Six-year-old Ibrahim, meanwhile, was trying to build a fort with the sofa cushions instead of eating his eggs.
Amina moved through the storm like a maestro. “Skirt is on the dryer, freshly ironed. Layla, use the blue one. Ibrahim, eggs now, fort later.” Her voice was calm, an anchor in the whirlwind. The peace from her prayer was now a practical force of organization. She braided hair, tied shoelaces, signed permission slips, and packed lunchboxes—all while ensuring everyone had a piece of toast in their hand. It was a dance of love and logistics, a symphony conducted with a steady hand and a patient heart.
