The Son I Tried to Take Away

[ummtaalib]

The Son I Tried to Take Away (Part One)

 

True Story (Names and details changed)

 

I was nineteen when Irfan proposed to me. We had known each other since high school. Ours was a love marriage in every sense of the word. We had grown up together, fallen in love when we were young, and by the time he asked me to marry him, I could think of no reason to say no.

 

I thought I knew what marriage would be like. I thought it would be Irfan and me, our own little world, our own home, our own happiness. I was wrong.

 

After our marriage, I discovered that I was not just marrying Irfan. I was becoming part of a family. His parents lived with us, and he had sisters who lived in Australia and visited once or twice a year. Even their short visits irritated me. I had never imagined myself living in an extended family, and I resented almost everything about it. No one came in my way or said anything, but I felt irritated at the fact that Irfan and I were not alone.

 

The irony was that my in-laws were good people. My mother-in-law never interfered in our marriage. My father-in-law never dictated how we should live. They did not shout at me, humiliate me, or demand anything from me. The problem wasn't that they were bad. The problem was that I did not want them there. Full stop. And the biggest problem of all was that Irfan was not only a good husband. He was a good son.

 

Every morning, before he even thought about himself, he would prepare honey water for his parents. When they woke up, he would place their shoes outside their bedroom doors. He would go jogging with his father, then come home, get ready for work and do his parents' laundry. He hugged his mother frequently. She loved him to bits, and I hated that.

 

He checked whether his father needed anything. If his mother called him to get something or take her somewhere he would do so. If his father asked him to accompany him somewhere, he would go. And I hated it.

 

Not because Irfan neglected me. He didn't. He was, in many ways, an exceptionally loving husband. He knew my favourite foods and would bring them home for me. He would surprise me with snacks from the shops... Lotus Biscoff, Walkers crisps, M&S croissants, chocolate, and whatever new treat he knew I loved since school days. He took me out to restaurants. He brought me breakfast in bed. He planned little surprises.

 

Every few months, whenever he had five days off together, he would take me somewhere. Turkey. Italy. France. Jordan. Morocco. Spain. He wanted me to see the world. He wanted me to be happy.

 

But I wasn't. Because every time I saw him doing something for his parents, I felt as though something was being taken away from me. I didn't understand then that love isn't a pie that becomes smaller every time someone else receives a slice. I thought if his mother got more of her son, I must be getting less of my husband.

 

So, I began interfering…

 

If his mother called him and wanted him to take her somewhere, I would suddenly say, "I need to go to the pharmacy." Or, "I have to go to my mum's, hurry up." And Irfan, being the gentle husband he was, would tell his mother, "I'll take you tomorrow." I made sure tomorrow never came.

 

In the mornings, I started saying, "Let's exercise together." He would say, "I'll go jogging first and then we can do something together." But I would argue. Eventually, after enough arguments and enough emotional pressure, Irfan stopped jogging with his father. Then he stopped doing things for his parents.

 

The son who had spent years serving his parents quietly began withdrawing from them. And instead of feeling ashamed, I felt victorious.

 

Then we had our first child…

 

Three years into our marriage, I went to my mother's house for the delivery. When it was time for me to return, my in-laws were overjoyed. They had decorated the house. They had prepared everything. They had arranged a huge welcome gathering. They were excited to welcome me and their grandson home.

I remember walking into that house and feeling the smallest tinge of guilt. But it wasn't enough to change me. I quickly ate with everyone, then excused myself. "I need to rest." I went upstairs. I never came back down.

 

From upstairs, I could hear my mother-in-law speaking gently to the others. "You know how it is with a baby. She must be exhausted. She probably fell asleep while feeding him." There was no anger in her voice. No complaint. No accusation. 

Just kindness. And somehow, that made what I was doing even worse.

 

Not long after, I told Irfan, "Now that we have a child, we can't continue living like this. You need to make arrangements for your parents to move." I had never seen him so angry. "You want my parents to leave?" His voice shook. "They have done nothing to you." We argued. Then he said something I would never forget: "This is Mum and Dad's house. If you don't want to live with them, then you move. I'll find us somewhere else."

 

And he did. Within two weeks, he had found a flat close to his workplace in London, where he worked as a solicitor at the fictional law firm Harrington & Cole LLP.

When he finally told his parents, their hearts broke. They cried. I knew why. Irfan was their only son. For years, he had been their companion, their helper, the person they relied upon. And I had slowly convinced him to move away.

 

I remember seeing their sadness. And I remember the shameful feeling I had inside. I gloated. I felt like I had won. When we moved into our new home, I experienced something I had wanted for years: Freedom. 

 

It was just me, Irfan and our little boy, Uthman. No one else. No one moving around the house, while I was having breakfast. No parents in the next room. No sisters visiting. No family obligations. Just my husband and my son.

 

I was happy. At least I thought I was...

 

Reality, however, quickly caught up with me. Some days I struggled to cook. Some days the laundry piled up. Some nights Uthman cried for hours, and I had no idea what was wrong. I was exhausted. But even in my exhaustion, I told myself, "At least I have my own home."

 

Irfan now visited his parents regularly and freely without being controlled. After Asr, he would often go to their house. He went to the masjid with his father. He took his mother shopping. If she needed to go somewhere, he took her. He was becoming the same dutiful son he had always been. And I was furious. I had removed him from the house. But I couldn't remove his love for his parents.

 

Every time he came home from visiting them, I would find something to fight about. My in-laws also visited us once a week to see Uthman. My mother-in-law was a naturally cheerful woman. She smiled constantly. She joked with everyone. She had a way of making people laugh without trying. 

 

She never shouted. She never raised her voice. She never criticised my cooking or my parenting. But one afternoon, during a visit, she looked at Uthman carefully. Then she said gently, "Amina, I think you should have Uthman checked by a doctor. I've noticed he seems uncomfortable when he passes stool. He strains a lot and doesn't seem to be passing properly. Perhaps it's nothing, but I think it would be better to have him examined." that was all. She wasn't interfering. She wasn't diagnosing him. She was simply a grandmother who had noticed her grandson struggling.

 

But I heard it differently. I heard criticism. I heard interference. And I immediately became defensive. Irfan noticed. For the first time in my life, I heard him raise his voice at his mother. "Please don't interfere in our lives." His mother went quiet. I should have stopped there. I should have realised what was happening. Instead, I began looking for another way to put distance between them. I started telling Irfan that we should move abroad. "Why don't you look for something in Dubai? My uncle and his family are settled there. They can help." 

 

Then one of his colleagues mentioned Qatar. "Imagine it," I told him. "Just us. A fresh start. A better life. "Eventually, he found a position with a fictional international law firm in Doha. He applied. Three months later, the acceptance letter arrived.

 

I remember the day it came. It was one of the happiest days of my life. I thought I had finally won. Uthman was about nine months old when we moved to Qatar. The company provided us with a furnished apartment and a car. My in-laws were devastated. Their only son was moving to another country. They tried to be happy for us, but I could see the sadness in their faces…

 

To be continued…

 

Jamiatul Ulama (KZN)
Council of Muslim Theologians