Hidol
It was hard to believe that they had argued so harshly over four enamel bowls. The battered old things weren’t worth anything or even especially pretty. They had flaked in several places and one had a spot so dark and unsightly, it looked like a resting moth. Still, they had sentimental value – accrued from a decade at their mother’s table – and so the siblings had argued.
Jamal, the eldest, snatched up the bowls possessively. “But what are you going to do with them? You don’t even cook.”
“And you do?” Farah replied tartly. “I’m her only daughter. It’s only right that I should have them.” She knew she was using the very same logic that she had battled for years.
“What if we took one each?” said Rehan, the youngest.
The other two glared with such contempt that he retreated back to the cupboard in the corner. Silently, he unpicked old jars of jam and honey from their sticky bases.
Her mother would foist scribbled recipes on her. Farah
