I was watching television when my phone rang. It was Mohammad. I answered eagerly.
After we had exchanged greetings, he said, “I’m coming home tomorrow.”
He had little time to talk. Mohammad was a soldier, devoted to his duty. He always said that people’s safety came before everything else, and that he could never leave a responsibility unfulfilled. Sometimes I grew tired of his long deployments and the months we spent apart. But I knew he was not a man to turn his back on a promise.
Three months had passed since I had last seen him. Now, at last, he was coming home. I could hardly contain my joy.
“Who was it, Mum?” asked Bahar, my seven-year-old daughter.
“Your father,” I said, smiling. “He’ll be home tomorrow.”
She squealed with delight, then frowned.
“Why can’t he come today?”
“It’s a long journey, sweetheart.”
For three months, she had been asking when he would return. Whenever someone knocked at the gate, she would leave her toys and race into the courtyard. If it wasn’t her father, she would come back disappointed and spend hours talking to her dolls.
During his last visit, she had hardly left his side. When the time came for him to go, she held his hand and begged him to stay. Mohammad gathered her into his arms and promised he would be back soon, with more dolls for her.
Now, with his homecoming only a day away, all those months of longing seemed forgotten. She was full of questions, eager to decide how we should welcome him.
I needed to stop at the little shop near our house and pick up a few things on credit, as I often did. Tomorrow, Mohammad would bring his pay, and we could settle the account.
That night, I went to bed full of hope, impatient for morning.
In Mohammad’s absence, the days always seemed longer. I spent my mornings teaching at the school, and when I came home, there was Bahar to care for and housework to do. Yet however busy I was, I felt his absence. In the middle of a lesson, on the walk home, while cooking or cleaning, my thoughts would turn to him. Again and again, I prayed for his safe return.
At dawn, I slipped out of bed and tucked the blanket around Bahar without waking her. I swept the courtyard and finished the chores, then went into the kitchen to make Mohammad’s favourite meal.
As I chopped the tomatoes, peppers, and herbs, I remembered another day when I had stood preparing the same meal. He had come home unexpectedly, carrying a small cake and a gift box. Inside was a beautiful watch.
“Happy anniversary,” he had said, smiling as he handed it to me.
I had been so surprised. Mohammad always remembered our special days—our wedding anniversary and little occasions that might have meant nothing to anyone else. He made each one a reason to bring me happiness.
I pictured his face: his dark eyes and eyebrows, his finely shaped nose, his warm smile. I thought of his broad shoulders and the sense of safety I felt beside him.
To me, he was the best man in the world.
Bahar’s voice broke into my thoughts.
“Mum … Mum?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Where’s Dad? Why isn’t he here yet?”
“He’ll be here soon,” I told her with a smile. “Go and brush your doll’s hair. He might be home by the time you’re done.”
“All right!” she said, running off.
Later, I straightened her clothes and brushed her hair. As I drew the brush through it, I remembered something Mohammad used to say.
“I hope we have a little girl one day, with hair just like yours.”
God had granted him that wish.
Bahar and I sat together, watching the gate. The tea had gone cold, and the food was no longer warm. Every few minutes, I glanced at the clock. If Mohammad took much longer, I would have to heat everything up again. Beside me, Bahar fidgeted, turning towards the gate at every sound outside.
By half past twelve, he still hadn’t arrived. On his previous visits, he had always been home before noon.
I tried to reassure myself. Perhaps something had held him up. Perhaps there had been a delay on the road. I would give him a little more time.
One o’clock came. Then two. Then three.
I warmed the tea again, but I couldn’t eat. Each time I looked towards the gate, it stood as silent as before. Gradually, the happiness of the morning drained away, leaving a growing unease.
I called his phone again and again. Each time, the same recorded voice answered:
“The number you have dialled is currently unavailable.”
“Why isn’t Dad here?” Bahar kept asking.
I had no answer. I gave her something to eat, then persuaded her to lie down.
“Have a nap, sweetheart. He’ll be here when you wake up.”
She fell asleep with that promise to comfort her.
I was lost in worry when my phone rang again. I answered without looking at the screen.
“Hello,” a man said. “May I speak to Mohammad’s wife?”
At the mention of his name, I smiled.
“Yes, that’s me. Who is this? Have you heard from Mohammad? We’ve been waiting for him all morning, but he hasn’t come.”
There was a pause. For a moment, I thought we had lost the connection.
“Can you hear me? Where is he? Why hasn’t he called?”
The man’s voice was quiet and strained.
“I’m one of your husband’s fellow soldiers. I’m afraid I have some news.”
My heart began to race. My mouth went dry.
“Where is Mohammad?”
He sighed.
“At about eight this morning, the vehicle carrying your husband and several other soldiers was attacked on their way home—”
The rest of the sentence slipped beyond my hearing. My head swam. I clutched the phone.
“No … He called me yesterday. He said he was coming home today. You must be mistaken.”
The man’s voice trembled.
“Mohammad and several of his fellow soldiers were martyred.”
I heard the words, but could not take them in. He went on speaking, though I no longer knew what he was saying.
The phone fell from my hand. My knees buckled, and I sank to the floor. The room spun around me. Then everything went dark.
I don’t know how long I lay there before a familiar cry reached me.
“Mum … wake up. Mum, I’m scared.”
Bahar.
I opened my eyes and pulled her into my arms. She touched my face, her frightened eyes searching mine.
“Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” I whispered, stroking her. “I’m here.”
But how could I comfort myself? How could I tell her she would never see her father again? How could I explain that the man we had been waiting for all day would never come walking through our gate?
She laid her head against my chest.
“Mum, where’s Dad?”
I pressed my lips to her hair. I couldn’t speak.
My gaze settled on the gate. Still closed.
How would they bring him home? Would he be in his uniform? Would I see his face one last time?
I could not grasp it: tomorrow, I would open that same gate, and they would carry him into the home he had promised to return to.
By: Madina Teimori
