AYAAN who live in lughaya town with 8 children tw
AYAAN who live in lughaya town with 8 children two died, one in the past year and the other baby girl died at age of 6-month, march of this year due to recurrent coughing and poor health. The alive children are 2 girls and 4 boys. Now divorced and without someone to depend on she works as cleaner, chores and sometimes as kat seller
The dust motes danced in the afternoon sun, illuminating the grimy air of Lughaya town. Aayan, her face etched with a weariness that belied her youthful 35 years, meticulously swept the courtyard of the local mosque. Her calloused hands, roughened by years of toil, moved with practiced ease, pushing the debris into neat piles.
Eight children had once filled her life, their laughter echoing through their humble home. Now, only six remained. The pain of losing two, a young boy a year ago and her baby girl, Maryam, to a relentless cough and fevers just last March, was a constant, gnawing ache in her heart. Maryam, just six months old, had been her last hope, her little ray of sunshine.
Aayan’s life was a tapestry woven with threads of hardship and resilience. Her husband, a fisherman, had succumbed to the sea’s unforgiving embrace three years ago, leaving her adrift in a sea of grief and despair. She had tried to hold onto their dreams, their meager belongings, their tiny patch of land. But life, it seemed, had other plans.
Each day was a struggle to make ends meet. Cleaning homes, scrubbing floors, washing clothes – these were the tasks that brought her a meager income. Sometimes, she would hawk kat, a fragrant blend of leaves and spices, at the market, her voice hoarse from pleading with potential buyers.
The weight of responsibility pressed down on her shoulders. She had four boys and two girls to feed, clothe, and educate. They were her reason for waking up each morning, their bright eyes and innocent smiles the fuel that kept her going. But the weight of their needs, the constant fear of not being able to provide, weighed heavily on her.
The ache in her heart deepened when she saw her youngest son, Ali, clutching a faded photograph of Maryam. He would often sit by himself, lost in thought, a miniature version of the grief that consumed her. She would pull him close, whispering reassurances, her own tears drying on her cheeks.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, Aayan sat on her porch, her children huddled around her. She held out a single, precious orange, the only fruit they had managed to afford that day. As they shared it, their laughter, though faint, filled the air, a reminder of the life that bloomed even amidst the ashes of sorrow.
Aayan looked at her children, their eyes shining with the hope that she herself sometimes struggled to find. She had lost so much, yet something inside her, a deep well of love and resilience, refused to be extinguished. In their eyes, she saw a reflection of her own strength, a promise that she would find a way to carry on, to build a future for them, a future where their laughter would ring out loud and clear, silencing the echoes of pain that haunted her.
