It was the morning Maryam had been thinking about for days now. Her son, Ubaid, was finally ready for school. He was just four years old, but his curious mind, quick learning, and calm temperament made him appear older than his age. The sun had barely risen, yet the house buzzed with excitement. Maryam had packed his tiny school bag the night before. She had ironed his neat white shirt and gray trousers herself, checking every button twice.
Haroon, dressed in his police uniform, helped Ubaid with his shoes. The badge on his chest caught the golden morning light. Ubaid stared at it for a moment and said, "Baba, I also want a shiny badge like this one."
Haroon smiled and knelt down. "You'll earn one even bigger than mine if you study hard and stay brave."
Maryam, standing in the kitchen, overheard them and smiled warmly. She poured warm milk into a cup and placed Ubaid's favorite paratha on a plate.
"Breakfast is ready!" she called.
The family sat together—Ubaid between his parents—eating slowly. Maryam's six-month pregnant belly was visible now. Her movements were slightly slower, but her smile remained radiant.
After breakfast, Maryam fixed Ubaid's school collar, adjusted his hair, and kissed his forehead. "My brave boy," she whispered.
Ubaid picked up his colorful school bag and walked confidently to the main gate. Haroon held his hand. Despite being a tough police officer, today his heart felt soft—almost fragile.
Maryam stood at the doorstep, her hand resting on her belly. "Take care," she said, waving.
Haroon and Ubaid stepped into the police department's SUV, which Haroon had received for official use but used today as a special privilege for his son's big day. Ubaid's school, one of the top institutions in Islamabad, was not too far.
Upon reaching, Haroon parked the SUV and walked hand-in-hand with Ubaid to the school gate. Dozens of children cried, clung to their parents, some even tried to run back to their cars. But Ubaid stood tall, smiling.
One of the teachers noticed and leaned down to him. "You're not crying?" she asked.
"No," he replied confidently. "Mama told me school is a good place."
Haroon laughed proudly. "I'll pick you up at 11 a.m., okay?"
Ubaid nodded and walked in with his teacher, waving back at his father.
Back at home, Maryam sat in the lounge, reading a book. Every now and then, she looked at the clock. It was the first time her child was away from her for so long. Her heart was full of duas, her hands resting gently on her growing belly.
Meanwhile, Rimsha and Imran were already at Amana Superstore. The place had grown into a bustling commercial hub in these three years. With its three floors—basement, ground, and first—it offered a variety of sections: groceries, kitchen items, baby care, cosmetics, and even a small cafeteria on the first floor. The staff had doubled, the income had tripled, and the community now recognized Amana Superstore as one of the most trusted names in the area.
Rimsha had completed her graduation in Commerce earlier that year and now worked full-time with Imran, learning business management, vendor dealings, employee supervision, and financial decisions. Though the first six months had been full of confusion—spreadsheets, sales numbers, bills—Rimsha adapted quickly.
"That's why I chose Commerce," she had told Imran a few days ago. "It makes sense now."
Imran had smiled, proud of her progress. Despite being a single father raising his daughter Khadija, now five, Imran was a man of discipline and emotional strength. Rimsha often saw him reading stories to Khadija in his office during lunch hours.
That day, around 10:30 a.m., the store was as busy as usual. Customers walked in and out, workers refilled shelves, and background music softly played to keep the environment fresh. Imran was in his office on the first floor reviewing inventory reports while Rimsha was on the ground floor, discussing the new product layout with employees.
At 11:00 a.m., Haroon's phone rang just as he was wrapping up a minor investigation report at the police station.
"Inspector Haroon?" the caller asked.
"Yes?"
"This is Miss Sara from Little Blossom School. Ubaid's first day has gone really well. You may come to pick him up now."
"Thank you so much," Haroon replied, his voice filled with fatherly joy.
He grabbed his keys, informed his junior officer, and quickly drove to the school. On reaching, he found Ubaid already standing at the main entrance with his teacher.
"Did you miss us?" Haroon asked.
"Not really," Ubaid replied cheekily. "I told my teacher I know A to Z and alif to yay, and I can count till 20!"
The teacher nodded. "He's a brilliant child. Very confident and polite."
Haroon shook her hand and took Ubaid in his arms, carrying him like a proud hero. They drove back, with Ubaid talking non-stop about his day, the toys in his classroom, the colors of the chairs, and how one boy spilled juice on the mat and got scolded.
When they reached home, Maryam opened the door with a glowing face.
"Ammi!" Ubaid rushed to her, and she bent down, hugging him tightly.
"How was it, jaan?"
"I liked it! Teacher liked me too!"
Maryam held back tears. Her son was growing up so fast. Haroon placed a hand on her shoulder.
Later that evening, the family sat together on the balcony. Rimsha and Imran also visited after store closing hours.
Rimsha had brought Khadija along. The two children—Khadija and Ubaid—ran around, playing hide and seek.
Imran handed over some documents to Haroon. "Quarterly profits. You might want to take a look."
Haroon laughed, "I just finished an interrogation today. Don't interrogate me with numbers now."
Everyone laughed.
Maryam leaned back in her chair, gently rubbing her belly. "This one is already kicking a lot. I think this baby will be a footballer."
"Or a cricketer like Haroon wanted to be," Rimsha teased.
The group laughed again, and the moment felt like something out of a dream. Life had changed drastically in the last few years—from Maryam's days of loneliness to now, having a loving husband, a son beginning school, a business flourishing, and another baby on the way.
The night fell softly, like a warm prayer. The lights of Amana Superstore could be seen glowing from their home rooftop, just a few blocks away. It was more than a building. It was a symbol—of faith, struggle, resilience, and love.
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End of Chapter 43