The morning sun crept in reluctantly, casting a pale golden hue over the rooftops of Istanbul. The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving behind the scent of petrichor and the glistening sheen of wet stone. Seagulls called out in the distance, weaving in and out of a wind that still carried the sharpness of early spring.
Imani stood barefoot by the large window of their rented apartment, the wooden floor cold beneath her feet. The curtains were half drawn, fluttering slightly from the breeze that seeped through a cracked pane. She sipped from a chipped blue mug, its contents lukewarm now—black coffee, no sugar.
Her eyes were on the phone.
The message still lingered on the screen: Come home. We need to talk.
Omar walked into the kitchen in a loose grey t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. His hair was still damp from the shower, slicked back but already showing signs of rebellion. He didn't speak at first. He just opened the fridge, retrieved a half-eaten tub of hummus and some pita bread, and quietly chewed while watching her.
"You've read it ten times in twenty minutes," he said, finally.
"I counted sixteen," she replied, without looking at him.
"So, what's the plan?"
"I don't know."
"Imani."
She turned toward him, her face a mix of tension and exhaustion. Her eyes were darker than usual, as if they'd absorbed the emotional weight of the past two days. "What if this isn't just a confrontation? What if she's trying to clean house—get rid of loose ends?"
Omar leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. "Then we don't go in blind."
A door creaked.
Zara emerged from the hallway, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She wore an oversized hoodie that reached mid-thigh and pink wool socks, mismatched but fluffy. Her hair was pulled up into a crooked pineapple bun, the scarf she'd slept in trailing behind like a flag of surrender.
"Why are you two whispering like it's an episode of Homeland?"
"She messaged," Omar said simply.
Zara's sleepy eyes sharpened instantly. "Your mom?"
Imani nodded.
Zara collapsed onto the sofa, hugging a pillow. "Okay, so… what if we treat this like an intel extraction mission instead of a family therapy session?"
Imani blinked. "You've been watching too many spy thrillers."
"Or not enough. You're not walking in there unprepared."
Omar tossed her a protein bar. "Eat. We leave in thirty."
---
They arrived in Üsküdar just past noon, the ferry slicing through the Bosphorus like a scalpel. The skyline shifted with every wave—domes, minarets, cranes, and the occasional Turkish flag fluttering high and proud.
Imani wore a full-length coat in maroon, the belt tied tight at the waist, a slate grey scarf pinned at her jawline. She'd applied a nude lipstick and dabbed concealer beneath her eyes, the bare minimum to feel like a composed version of herself. Her heels clicked softly as she walked, echoing faintly against the tiled courtyard of the family home.
Her mother lived in a traditional two-story house, white stucco walls with olive trees flanking the narrow walkway. Wind chimes swayed gently, producing a sound that felt more ominous than peaceful.
She took a breath before ringing the bell.
The door opened within seconds.
Layla stood there, graceful as ever, wearing an ivory abaya with delicate beadwork at the hem. Her hijab was wrapped elegantly, not a single strand out of place. Her face was calm, unreadable.
"Imani," she said with a faint smile. "I was starting to think you wouldn't come."
Imani stepped inside. The air smelled of oud and Turkish tea. The entryway had been redecorated—new rug, new calligraphy on the walls, but the same family portraits tucked near the corner.
Her mother motioned to the living room. "Please, sit. Would you like tea?"
"I'm not here for tea."
Her mother's smile tightened, then vanished. "Alright then."
They sat across from each other. A glass coffee table separated them. On it, a single unopened box of Turkish delight.
"I suppose you've found out," Layla said.
Imani tilted her head. "That you've been part of a covert foundation manipulating institutions across three continents? Yes, I have."
Her mother's lips pressed together. "You're angry. That's expected."
"I'm more disappointed than angry."
"Because I didn't tell you?"
"Because you let me grow up thinking Baba died."
Layla leaned back, fingers clasped. Her gaze dropped. "That was necessary."
Imani's voice cracked slightly. "You destroyed my childhood. You made me bury him in my prayers, year after year."
Silence settled like ash.
Then Layla spoke again. "Imani, your father left us. He betrayed the foundation. He wanted to leak classified operations—ones that would've endangered lives."
"You think that justifies faking his death?"
"I think protecting the greater good sometimes demands sacrifice."
Imani leaned forward. "You're not talking to a recruit, Mother. You're talking to your daughter."
For the first time, Layla's composure cracked. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the box of delights and opened it slowly, more to steady herself than anything else.
"I never wanted this for you," she said softly.
"Then why drag me into it?"
"Because you're my legacy."
Imani froze.
"I chose you, Imani," Layla continued, voice rising. "Not because I wanted to, but because you were the only one who could clean up your father's mess. You think your medical placements, your research grants, your placements at elite hospitals were all random? We paved the path. I paved the path."
"You manipulated my life."
"I shaped your life. There's a difference."
Imani stood abruptly, fists clenched. "Then maybe I don't want to walk this path anymore."
Layla remained seated, calm again. "Then you better be ready for the storm that comes when you try to walk away."
---
Outside, the clouds had returned, cloaking the sky in gray.
Imani stepped out into the cold air, her breath visible. She was shaking.
Omar was waiting across the street, leaning against a lamppost, arms crossed. He raised an eyebrow.
"So?"
Imani swallowed hard. "She's worse than we thought."
"And your father?"
"I still don't know everything. But I'm done waiting."
She took out her phone and typed quickly.
A single message to an anonymous number:
"Initiate Phase One."
Omar raised a brow. "Phase One?"
Imani looked at him, eyes sharp. "We're not just digging up the truth anymore. We're taking them down."
---
To be continued...