Maher knew he had a long journey of healing ahead of him. He needed to get back on his feet soon, to find a job, he couldn't stay home and rely on his parents forever. He had to push through, to move on.
For days, he searched everywhere in the city, but with no luck. Employers would promise to call him back, only to ghost him completely. Others offered wages below the legal minimum, taking advantage of his desperation.
He wasn't shocked. What else should a 27-year-old with no degree and no special skills expect?
Defeated, he returned home and shut himself in his room. Grabbing a book, he tried to distract himself, but the words blurred together. After a few unfocused pages, exhaustion took over, and he drifted off to sleep.
Maher's days blurred into an exhausting cycle. Each morning, he'd drag himself out of bed, force a hopeful expression, and set out to find work, only to repeat the same soul-crushing pattern.
One day, he landed a job at a small warehouse. The foreman, a gruff man with a permanent scowl, barely looked at him as he barked orders.
"You'll move crates. No breaks unless I say so. Pay's 20 an hour, but you only get half today, the rest if you last the week."
Maher clenched his jaw but nodded. He worked until his muscles burned, his shirt soaked with sweat. At the end of the day, he approached the foreman.
"You said 20 an hour. This is half of what I earned."
The man shrugged. "Take it or leave it. Plenty others will."
Maher's hands trembled, but he shoved the money into his pocket and walked out, knowing he wouldn't return.
The next job was worse-a café owner who yelled at him for being "too slow" and docked his pay for "training costs."
"That wasn't the deal," Maher argued.
"Deal?" The owner smirked. "You're lucky I'm giving you anything."
Maher left without another word.
Day after day, the same story. Temporary work, exploitation, arguments, then quitting. And repeat. His frustration grew, but he forced himself to keep going.
"Just push through," he muttered to himself, pacing the streets. "You have to. No other choice."
But the words rang hollow. The exhaustion wasn't just physical-it was the slow erosion of hope.
Why am I even doing this?
The question crept in more often now. The fire that had driven him was dimming, smothered by the weight of rejection and despair.
Yet he kept moving. Because stopping meant admitting defeat. And he wasn't ready to do that, not yet.
Maher lay on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His body ached from another grueling day of wasted effort, and his mind was too numb to even consider what came next. A soft knock at the door went unanswered.
A moment later, the door creaked open, and his father stepped inside. The older man sat quietly on the edge of the bed, the weight of his presence filling the silent room. After a long pause, he spoke.
"Your mother is worried about you," he said, his voice gentle."She prays for you day and night. All she wants is to see you happy again."
Maher said nothing, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the walls.
His father continued, his tone steady but heavy with emotion. "It's not your fault, son. You've always been a good son, a good student, a good cop. None of what happened was your doing. This life... it's full of tests. Allah tests His strongest believers the hardest. And I know, soon, things will turn around for you."
Maher swallowed hard but gave only a slow, silent nod.
His father exhaled, then stood to leave. But before he stepped out, he paused in the doorway. Without turning back, his voice barely above a whisper, he said:
"One day... I hope you forgive me."
Then he shut the door behind him, leaving Maher alone with the weight of those words pressing down on his chest.