Al performed her final sujood of the witr prayer at the Prophet's Mosque. Her body trembled with humility and tears. Her shoulders rose and fell as she whispered one prayer after another. Any lingering thoughts about whether Ahmad had woken up or was looking for her faded into the background. At that moment, her entire being was focused on one thing: her grief.
"O my Lord, please grant me the strength to accept all of Your decrees with contentment. You know best how I feel right now. You know how shattered and empty I am inside. O Allah, fill me with Your mercy. Forgive me, and help me to forgive myself."
Since Ahsan's passing, Al felt like the most despicable person on earth. She saw herself as a failure of a wife—flawed, full of faults. In her eyes, Ahsan had been far too good for someone like her. All the kind words he had ever said about her faded from memory. What remained were only the moments she failed to be grateful. The times she got angry, sulked, delayed his requests, or failed to be her best self in their short marriage of only two years.
She cursed herself every single day. All that was left was regret. She regretted ever raising her voice, ever protesting, ever feeling too tired to serve him. She regretted not being the first to apologize after an argument. She regretted standing her ground when they disagreed. She regretted ever pointing out Ahsan's flaws. She regretted expecting more from him. To others, those things might be normal. But not to Al. To her, she was cruel and full of sin.
She feared Ahsan hadn't forgiven her. She feared that his disapproval would burden her soul on the Day of Judgment. Even the sweet words he had said at the end—"This isn't your fault"—were not enough to lift the weight of guilt she carried. They weren't enough to convince her that he had truly forgiven her. The regret sat like a stone on her chest, heavy and endless.
People often say, "There's always tomorrow." But for Al, that was the problem. There was no tomorrow. No second chances. She could no longer apologize. No more chances to be a better wife. All she could do now was pray.
Her sobs deepened into the carpet of Nabawi. She no longer cared about her runny nose or the wet patches forming beneath her.
"O Allah, count me among those who are patient and whom You are pleased with. I don't know what could possibly be better than Ahsan—but I still ask You, please bring into my life something better."
Al didn't want anyone to replace Ahsan—not even in theory. Once, a fellow pilgrim had said, "InshaAllah, you'll find someone even better." Her heart cried out in silence. What could ever be better than our little, joyful family? What could be better than Ahsan?
She would've faced every trial with him—any hardship, any sorrow. But this—this was the one test she never imagined: life without him.
Still sobbing, she whispered again, "Ya Rabb, please reward this pain with Your Paradise. Reunite us there. Let me see him again."
But deep inside, a quiet voice questioned, Will this pain ever fade? Do I even deserve to be happy again after everything I failed to do for Ahsan?