Give Me My Son

The heat hit me before I even reached the bottom of the aircraft stairs. It wrapped around my throat like a hand, thick and merciless, nothing like the grey drizzle I'd left behind in London.

I stood there for a second too long, my black abaya sticking to my back, and watched as they wheeled Zayn's coffin out of the cargo hold.

My husband. Coming home in a box.

I hadn't cried in six hours. I'd promised myself I wouldn't, not until Rayyan was asleep and I was alone, but standing on this tarmac, watching strangers handle what was left of the only man I'd ever loved, I had to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep myself together.

"Mama." Rayyan tugged my hand. He was too quiet for a six-year-old, had been since the hospital. "Is that Baba?"

"Yes, baby." I squeezed his fingers. "We're bringing him home now."

Except this wasn't home. Not to me. I'd been born in London, raised in London, married in London. My great-grandparents were the ones who'd left Dubai generations ago, and until three days ago, this city had been nothing but a name on an old passport my father used to complain about renewing. 

Zayn never brought me here. Zayn never spoke of here at all, not once in nine years of marriage, except at the very end.

That should have told me something.

I saw them before they saw men, a cluster of men near the private terminal doors, dressed in white and gold, standing with the kind of stillness that only came from power. Six of them, maybe seven. I didn't know a single face. 

My stomach dropped anyway, some animal instinct recognizing danger before my mind could catch up.

One of them stepped forward. Tall, unreasonably composed, dressed sharper than the rest, dark thobe, gold cufflinks, a watch that probably cost more than my flat. His eyes found mine and held them, and for a moment neither of us moved.

"Sophie." He said my name like he already owned it. "I'm Khalil."

The number Zayn had scrawled on a napkin from his hospital bed, pressed into my palm with hands too weak to hold a pen properly. “If anything happens to me, call my brother. Only if you have no other choice.”

I had never had a choice. That was the whole point of tonight.

"You're Zayn's brother." It wasn't a question. Now that I looked, I could see it, the same jaw, the same quiet menace behind otherwise gentle eyes. Zayn had never mentioned a brother's name. He'd never mentioned any of them.

"I am." His gaze flicked past me to the coffin being lowered onto a trolley, and something moved behind his composure, grief, maybe, quickly locked away.

"We've arranged for him to be taken to the family estate. The whole dynasty will want to pay their respects before—"

"No." The word came out sharper than I intended, but I didn't take it back. "He's being buried today. At the cemetery. That was the arrangement."

Khalil's expression didn't change, but the men behind him shifted, an almost imperceptible ripple of tension. "You don't understand how things are done here."

"I don't need to understand how things are done here." My voice shook, but I kept going. "I need to bury my husband and take my son home. That's all I came for."

It wasn't entirely true, and some small, honest part of me knew it. Zayn had wanted to be buried in London, he'd told me so plainly, in the last week, in the flat exhausted voice of a man who'd made peace with dying far from the family that broke him. But I couldn't let hatred be the last word.

I couldn't bury a man carrying that much bitterness into the ground without at least offering his family the chance to grieve him too. So I'd changed his wish without asking him, because he couldn't argue anymore, and some nights I still didn't know if I'd done it for him or for myself.

Khalil studied me the way you'd study something unexpected. Something that irritated him simply by existing. "You'll do as the family decides."

"I am not part of your family." My chin lifted. "I'm his wife. That's the only claim that matters."

Before he could answer, I heard the car door behind us bang open, and small feet hit the tarmac at a run.

"Mama!"

Rayyan. I'd left him buckled in with one of the aides not thirty seconds ago, and now he was sprinting straight for me, arms outstretched, face crumpled with the particular fear of a child who doesn't understand death but understands abandonment. 

I caught him, lifted him onto my hip even though he was getting too big for it, and felt his heart hammering against mine.

Khalil went very still.

I watched something shift in his face as he looked at my son, really looked at him for the first time. His jaw tightened. His eyes, hard as stone a moment ago, went glassy.

"May I?" His voice had lost its edge entirely.

Before I could answer, he reached out and took Rayyan from my arms. Not violently but carefully, almost reverently, like Rayyan was something that might shatter. He crouched, cupping my son's small face in both hands, studying him feature by feature.

"He has his eyes," Khalil murmured, more to himself than to me. "God. He has Zayn's eyes."

"Khalil." I stepped forward, unsettled by the intensity, by the way the other men had gone quiet and watchful around us. "Give him to me. We're not staying. We're burying Zayn and we're going home."

"He IS home," Khalil said, still looking at Rayyan like he'd seen a ghost.

"Give him to me." I reached for my son.

Khalil's arm shot out and shoved me back with a force that stole the air from my lungs. I stumbled, caught myself on the trolley, and by the time I'd found my footing, he was already striding toward a black SUV with Zayd clutched against his chest.

"Rayyan!" I screamed his name, my voice cracking apart in the desert heat. "Khalil, put him down! 

Khalil!"

The car door slammed. The engine roared to life.

I didn't think. I didn't grab a bag. The car carrying Zayn's coffin was already peeling away, falling in line behind Khalil's SUV, and I ran for the only other car left, wrenched the door open, and threw myself inside, screaming at the driver to follow, my hands shaking, my whole body screaming one single thought over and over.

“They took Zayn. They will not take my son too.”

The SUV pulled away into the golden haze of the highway, and I chased it into a country that had never once felt like mine.