**Karachi, 1901 – A House in Mourning**
The scent of rosewater had been replaced by the heavy aroma of sandalwood incense, burning in brass holders around the Jinnah residence. The windows were shuttered, the mirrors covered—signs of a home gripped by death.
Fatima, now eight years old, sat stiffly in the corner of the sitting room, her black mourning dress itching at her neck. The women of the household moved in hushed circles, their whispers fluttering like moth wings against the silence.
*"Allah has taken him too soon..."*
*"Seven children left behind..."*
*"What will become of them now?"*
Mithibai, her face veiled and her eyes red-raw, clutched a string of prayer beads. Fatima watched as her mother's fingers trembled over each bead, her lips moving in silent recitation.
Maryam entered, her own face pale with exhaustion. She knelt beside Fatima.
*"Have you eaten?"* she asked softly.
Fatima shook her head. *"Where is Bhai?"*
Maryam hesitated. *"He's with the lawyers. There are... matters to settle."*
---
### **The Will**
Jinnahbhai Poonja's study, once a place of cigar smoke and ledger books, now felt hollow. Jinnah, just returned from London, stood by the desk, his expression unreadable as the family solicitor read aloud.
*"To my eldest son, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, I leave the responsibility of the family's welfare..."*
Fatima, lingering by the door, barely understood the legal terms—*debts, assets, guardianship*—but she saw the way Jinnah's fingers tightened around the edge of the desk.
Their uncle, a stout man with a thick mustache, cleared his throat. *"Jinnah, you must return to London. Your studies—"*
*"I will not,"* Jinnah interrupted, his voice like steel. *"My place is here now."*
Fatima's breath caught. *He's staying.*
---
### **The First Night Without Him**
The house felt too large, too quiet. Fatima crept to Jinnah's room, where he sat at his writing desk, a single oil lamp casting long shadows.
She hovered in the doorway. *"Bhai?"*
He didn't turn. *"You should be asleep."*
*"I can't."* She stepped inside, her bare feet silent on the rug. *"Are you angry?"*
Jinnah exhaled, setting down his pen. *"No. Not at you."*
*"At Abba?"*
A pause. *"At myself."*
Fatima didn't understand, but she climbed onto the chair beside him, pressing her shoulder against his arm. He didn't pull away.
*"Will we have to leave the house?"* she whispered.
Jinnah's jaw tightened. *"No. I won't allow it."*
---
### **The Family Fractures**
Days later, the creditors came.
Fatima watched from the upper balcony as men in stiff suits marched into the courtyard, their voices sharp as they demanded payment. Jinnah stood at the door, his posture rigid.
*"You will have what is owed,"* he said, cold and precise. *"But you will not enter this house again."*
That night, Mithibai gathered the children. *"We must be careful now,"* she said, her voice thin. *"No more tutors, no unnecessary expenses."*
Fatima's stomach twisted. *"But my lessons—"*
*"Are a luxury we cannot afford,"* Mithibai finished gently.
Jinnah, standing in the corner, said nothing. But later, Fatima found a stack of books outside her door—his own law texts, with notes scribbled in the margins.
*Study these,* a slip of paper read. *We make our own luck.*
---
### **The First Rebellion**
Fatima refused to accept defeat.
She stole into Jinnah's study at night, reading by candlelight until her eyes burned. When her uncle caught her, he scoffed.
*"What use is this for a girl? You should be learning to cook."*
Fatima lifted her chin. *"I'm learning to argue. So I can tell you why you're wrong."*
A beat of silence—then, unexpectedly, Jinnah's voice from the doorway.
*"Well said."*
Their uncle scowled and left. Jinnah didn't smile, but there was something approving in his gaze.
*"Keep reading,"* he said. *"But don't get caught."*
---
### **The Legacy Left Behind**
As the months passed, the debts were settled, but the house never quite regained its warmth. Mithibai grew quieter, Maryam more withdrawn. Only Fatima and Jinnah seemed to move forward, bound by silent determination.
One evening, Fatima found Jinnah standing in their father's empty study, staring at the portrait above the desk.
*"Do you miss him?"* she asked.
Jinnah didn't answer immediately. *"I miss the man he was before the world hardened him."*
Fatima slipped her hand into his. *"I won't let it harden me."*
For the first time since their father's death, Jinnah's grip tightened around hers.
*"No,"* he agreed. *"You won't."*