“Haven't you done the ironing yet? I need my shirt ironed for tomorrow.”
“I've only just finished the cooking.”
“You've had the whole day to do it, what have you been doing?”
“You want a run-down? Got the kids ready for school, had to speak to the headmaster about Ahmad's low grades, went to the doctor, got my prescription, did the weekly shopping, hoovered the house, had to pop round to a sisters...”
“You're always popping round sisters' houses, I reckon that's what distracts you. Once you lot get chatting, before you know it, the whole day has passed. ”
“For your information, I was visiting a sick sister. why can't you iron your own shirt for once?!
"Iron my own shirt-"
“I don’t know why you have to be immature about it.” I put my foot in it again. Opened my big mouth.
“Don’t you dare call me immature, you don’t understand it’s hard for me.” My sister erupts into a flood of tears and walks out of the room. I sit contemplating.
Anyone else would have probably shrugged off the comment or started a slanging match. Even if they felt angry, crying would probably not have been their first reaction. “Alhamdulillah,” I murmur under my breath. Accidentally throwing away the salt of my sister, a depressive anorexic sufferer, and consequently making such a comment was not the best idea, especially as it involved food.
The alarm on my Nokia went off. I turned over and glanced at the clock: 4:15am. Time for Suhur. I dragged myself out of bed so that I wouldn’t drop off back to sleep. With blurry eyes, I put on my dressing gown and made my way downstairs...