The car hummed softly as it moved through the countryside, winding past tall eucalyptus trees and fading red earth. Amara sat in the passenger seat, her hands folded tightly on her lap. She had dressed modestly, in a flowing cream blouse and a skirt that touched her ankles, hoping to strike the balance between polite and approachable.
Beside her, Zayn drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. He glanced at her now and then, as if trying to gauge her nerves.
"You're quiet," he said.
She smiled faintly. "I'm trying not to overthink."
"You don't have to impress her."
"That's what people always say before a major test."
Zayn chuckled. "It's not a test. It's just… complicated."
Amara looked out the window. The trees were thinning. Houses began to appear—small, quiet, nestled in yards that looked carefully tended. "You've never really talked much about her."
"She's a strong woman," he said after a pause. "Tough. Opinionated. Not always warm, but never unkind. My father left early, and she never remarried. Everything I am, everything I've built—she had a hand in it, even if she didn't always show affection the way I wanted."
Amara turned back to him. "And does she know who I am to you?"
Zayn gave a short nod. "She knows enough. But I want her to know everything."
A few minutes later, they pulled into a gravel driveway. The house was modest—a single-story building painted pale yellow with a small garden of marigolds and hibiscus out front. A wrought-iron gate stood slightly ajar.
Zayn got out and opened the passenger door for her. She stepped out slowly, heart thudding.
The front door opened before they even reached it.
A woman stood there, arms crossed. She wore a traditional wrapper and blouse, her hair neatly wrapped in a headscarf. Her eyes were sharp, discerning, and her expression unreadable.
"Good afternoon, Ma," Amara said with a slight bow.
The woman's eyes flicked to Zayn, then back to Amara. "You're the one my son has been speaking of?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She nodded once. "Come in."
They entered the living room. It smelled of citrus and old wood. Simple furniture lined the walls—polished chairs, a glass cabinet of trophies, a portrait of a younger Zayn on his university graduation day.
Zayn's mother moved with calm precision, pouring drinks and placing a plate of chin-chin on the center table. Then she sat, legs together, hands resting neatly in her lap.
"So," she said, her eyes on Amara. "What exactly do you do?"
"I'm a painter," Amara replied. "And an art teacher at a community center."
The woman's brow arched slightly. "A creative. Hm."
Zayn shifted in his seat. "She's very talented, Mama."
She glanced at him. "And you believe talent feeds a family?"
Amara felt the weight of the question, but her voice remained steady. "Passion with purpose can do more than just feed a family, ma. It can heal one."
There was a beat of silence. Then, to Amara's surprise, the older woman smiled slightly.
"Bold. I see why he likes you."
Zayn let out a quiet breath. Amara smiled back, grateful but wary. She had seen enough strained dynamics in her own home growing up. She knew winning over a mother wasn't a single conversation—it was a process.
They spoke for a while longer. The conversation turned to Zayn's childhood, stories that made him groan and his mother laugh. She told Amara about how he once tried to run away because she refused to buy him a toy car, only to come back hungry before sunset.
"He always had a stubborn streak," she said. "But I prayed it would lead him somewhere better. Maybe it did."
By late afternoon, Amara helped in the kitchen. As they peeled yams together, the silence between them softened.
"Do you come from a close family?" Zayn's mother asked without looking up.
"Not really," Amara admitted. "I left home young. I've had to build my own kind of family along the way."
The older woman nodded. "That takes strength."
"It takes pain first," Amara whispered.
Zayn's mother stopped slicing. Her eyes, when they met Amara's, were softer. "Pain shapes women more than joy ever does. But joy… joy is what makes us remember who we were before the pain."
Amara swallowed the lump in her throat. "I want to be that kind of woman."
"You already are."
It wasn't an embrace. It wasn't a blessing. But it was enough.
After dinner, Zayn offered to wash the dishes. Amara stepped out into the garden, needing air. The marigolds glowed in the fading light.
She heard footsteps behind her.
"She likes you," Zayn said, wrapping his arms around her from behind.
"She interrogated me."
"That's her love language."
Amara laughed, leaning into him. "Well, I survived."
They stood there for a moment, bodies pressed together, the hum of crickets in the distance. It felt surreal—meeting his mother, hearing stories from his childhood, being accepted, even if just a little.
"I want this to work," she said.
He turned her gently to face him. "It already is."
They left before it got too dark, his mother sending them off with a small container of leftover soup and the instructions: "Come back next Sunday. This time, bring appetite."
As they drove back to the city, Amara stared at the stars out the window, her hand resting in Zayn's. For the first time in a long while, she felt like she belonged somewhere—not just in his home, but in his past, his present, and hopefully, his future.
When they returned to the apartment, Amara changed into one of Zayn's oversized shirts and curled into the couch. He joined her, blanket over their legs, the television playing a documentary neither of them paid attention to.
Halfway through, he turned to her. "What would you say if I asked you to move in with me?"
Amara blinked. "You mean… permanently?"
He nodded. "I know we haven't planned everything. But this—us—it feels right. And I want you in my space every day, not just on weekends."
She searched his face. "Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
Amara's heart soared, but her voice remained calm. "Then I'll say yes."
He exhaled, as if releasing a breath he'd been holding all day. "You just made me the happiest man alive."
She kissed him softly. "We'll make this home. Together."
That night, while the city fell asleep around them, Amara dreamed of marigolds, of kitchens filled with laughter, and a future built from pieces of the past they were both learning to heal.