Altaf, Uncle of the Bride
Call me old-fashioned, but if you don’t rein in your girls, you bring what follows upon yourselves. The reality is, Hena was once a very good girl. Things went downhill after my brother died.
Latif was a pillar of our community. A rare breed who, despite the heights he reached, never forgot where he came from.
The wealthier he became, the more generous he grew.
You know the Pakistani American community center by Boulevard and Tenth Street?
The South Asian domestic violence shelter in Pembroke Pines?
They were both funded entirely by him. He hired the architects.
Reviewed the plans himself. With wealth comes responsibility—it’s what he always said.
My brother was not only a financial pillar of our community, he was also its patriarch.
People turned to him for counsel. He gave seed money to new entrepreneurs in the community to pay it forward.
He was the sort of man who wanted to lift all boats.
Even when people spoke ill of him, he paid it no mind.
He knew a man of his stature was bound to attract envy.
His death sent shock waves through our community. I’d long suspected Frida didn’t appreciate her husband’s way with money. This was confirmed upon his passing. She stopped contributing to any of his causes. It was over. Just like that.
I tried to reason with her. Remind her of the importance of respect and honor, of keeping her husband’s legacy alive—but she wouldn’t let me begin the conversation.
While Luma is a dear girl who has thrived in spite of her family situation, Hena is an example of how the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.
Frida let her run wild, and without her father’s guidance to keep her in place, what else could anyone expect to happen?
While I do not condone the unseemly gossip around here, who can blame us for feeling this way? Personally speaking, I believe she and her mother destroyed my brother’s legacy. I’m not sure I can ever forgive them for that.