I slowly stirred the wooden spoon around the pot. Pieces of apple moved through the thick, golden syrup, and steam settled on the window glass. I had lowered the heat so the jam could slowly reach the right consistency. My mother had told me that if I took my eyes off it even for a moment, it would burn at the bottom. From the next room, I heard my father cough, a long, dry cough, followed by the sound of his cane hitting the wall.
“Nahid, is the tea ready?”
“I’m bringing it now, Dad.”
I filled a cup with tea and placed it on a tray. When I entered the room, my father was sitting beside the window. His gray shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, and his white beard fell across his chest. He reached out to take the cup. His fingers were trembling, and my eyes remained fixed on his hands, hands that had provided for this household for years and now had to pause for a moment even to hold a cup of tea.
“Did anyone call today?”
I knew what he meant.
“No, Dad.”
He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip.
“God is great.”
Just four words.
God is great. I have heard that sentence so many times in this house, when money is short, when we need medicine, when bad news arrives, when we talk about the future and none of us knows what tomorrow will bring. I wanted to tell my father that I no longer found comfort in hearing those words. I wanted to say: “God is great, Dad, but I am tired.” But I quietly picked up the tray.
My file of documents was on the shelf in my room. I had not opened it for several days. Whenever I walked past it, my eyes fell on the edges of papers sticking out from the file.
That day, after putting away the dishes, I brought the file down and sat on the carpet. One by one, I took out my university graduation certificate, certificates from training courses and my employment documents. My name was on all of them, and the stamps and signatures were still clear. I ran my finger over the university stamp.
The day I graduated; I had thought that life would begin from there. I imagined that I would find a job, earn an income and help carry part of the household burden. Back then, whenever I talked about the future, my father would smile and say: “God willing, the day will come when you will be the one making decisions for us.” At the time, those words made me happy. But now, whenever I think about them, they leave a lump in my throat.
I picked up my phone and opened the job advertisements. I read them one after another: the job title, the requirements and the necessary documents. One advertisement said the applicant needed work experience. I had experience, and the position matched my skills. But when I reached the end of the advertisement, I saw the employment requirement: the applicant had to be a “man.”
I stared at that sentence for several moments and read it again, as if something might have changed the second time. I scrolled down and read the advertisement from the beginning. No. I had not misunderstood.
I closed the advertisement and moved on to the next one. Some advertisements explicitly stated the applicant’s gender. In others, I knew what I would find before I even reached the requirements. My finger remained on the screen for a moment before I closed the phone.
My mother called from her room: “Nahid, will you eat something?”
“No, Mom. I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten anything since morning.”
“I’ll eat later.”
I looked at my university certificate again. I turned the paper over so that my name would not be visible.
In the afternoon, when I went into the yard to fetch water, my father was sitting beneath the mulberry tree. His cane was beside his feet, and one hand rested on his knee. The sun was descending behind the wall, and the tree’s shadow was slowly reaching his feet.
“Does your leg hurt?”
“A little.”
“Have you run out of your medicine?”
“Yes, but it’s fine for now.”
I walked over and sat beside him.
“I’ll get your medicine tomorrow.”
He looked at me.
“Where will you get the money?”
I had no answer. My eyes fell on his cane. The handle had lost its color from years of being held in his hand.
“I’ll find a way.”
My father lowered his head and brushed the dust from his knee with his finger.
“My daughter, don’t tire yourself too much.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Then why do you think so much?”
I smiled, but I could not look at him.
“Dad, I don’t want to just sit and think anymore.”
He raised his head.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I just want to do something. I want that when you need something, you don’t have to worry about whether you can afford it.”
My father placed his hand over mine.
“You are always working hard for us.”
I did not pull my hand away. But I wanted to tell him that working hard and being able to change things were not the same. I said nothing.
From where we were sitting, I could see the kitchen window. The glass was clouded with steam. When I returned to the kitchen, the pot was still on the stove. The apples had softened. I picked up the spoon and stirred the mixture.
A voice in my head said: You did nothing again.
My hand stopped.
Why didn’t I?
I spent the whole day looking for a job.
Were you looking for a job, or were you just reading advertisements?
What difference does it make?
The difference is that you are still in the same house. Your father is still counting the money he needs for his medicine. Your mother is still giving up things she needs because she cannot afford them.
I gripped the spoon more tightly.
Do you think I don’t see it myself?
Then what came of all those years of studying and working hard?
The flame burned beneath the pot, and the syrup began to bubble. I looked at my hands. They still smelled of apples.
These are the hands I have.
The voice inside me laughed.
That’s it?
I slammed the spoon down on the table.
“Enough!”
My mother called from the other room: “Nahid, what happened?”
I looked at the pot. The syrup had risen to the edge.
“Nothing, Mom. The jam is about to boil over.”
I lowered the heat. But the voice would not go quiet.
That night, after dinner, my mother washed the dishes while my father lay in his room. I sat at the small table beside the window and started reading the job advertisements again.
One of them listed requirements that matched my experience. I read the text several times. Then I opened my file and placed my documents beside my phone.
My mother called from the kitchen: “Are you looking for a job again?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find anything?”
“There’s an advertisement. I want to apply.”
My mother dried her wet hands on the edge of her scarf and stood by the doorway.
“God willing, it will work out.”
I looked at the phone screen.
“Mom, what if it doesn’t work out again?”
She remained silent for a few moments.
“Then you try again.”
I raised my head.
“For how long?”
My mother did not answer. She only looked toward my father’s room and then turned back to collect the dishes.
I looked at my phone again. My finger rested over the submit button.
The same voice rose inside my head again: What if they don’t accept you?
I don’t know.
What if you never find a job?
This time, I said nothing.
I submitted the application.
A message appeared on the screen: “Your application has been successfully submitted.”
I stared at it for several moments, then put my phone aside.
Around midnight, I left my room to get some water. The kitchen light was on. My father had woken up and was standing by the door, one hand against the wall and the other holding his cane.
“Dad, why are you up? Do you need something?”
“Yes, water.”
I filled a cup and handed it to him. After drinking, he walked toward his room. He moved slowly. At the doorway, he stopped and turned back.
“Nahid, you’ve been awake all this time. Don’t think too much. Tomorrow is another day God has given us.”
I nodded.
My father went into his room, leaving the door half open.
I stayed in the kitchen. The jars of jam were lined up on the table. The light reflected off the glass, and the pieces of apple glowed amber beneath the syrup.
I picked up one of the jars, tightened the lid and put it back in its place. Then I washed my hands. Water ran between my fingers, but the sweet smell of apples still lingered on my skin.
When I woke up the next morning, the first thing I saw was my file of documents lying on the floor beside my books. I picked it up and put it in the cupboard.
I could hear my father coughing in his room. My mother was making tea in the kitchen, and morning light fell across the wall through the curtains.
I went into the kitchen.
“I’ll take the tea to Dad.”
I picked up the tray and walked toward my father’s room. When I entered, he was sitting beside the window. His white beard looked brighter in the morning light. He took the cup from my hand and said:
“May God reward you, my daughter.”
I sat beside him. For a few moments, I looked outside. Then my eyes fell on his hands holding the cup.
I wished that one day my father would no longer have to worry about paying for his medicine, and that I would be able to carry part of the burden of this household.
But that day had not yet come.
My father drank his tea, and I listened to the sound of my mother’s spoon in the kitchen. Life continued in the house, with morning tea, my father’s medicine and my mother’s dishes.
I put the file of documents back in the cupboard. Outside, the morning light fell across the wall.
