Chapter 15 Zainab
ZAINAB
Baltimore hit different now that I wasn’t running from it. I gripped the steering wheel of Prime’s Acura and watched the city unfold around me like a wound reopening. Every block carried a memory. Every street corner held secrets.
There was the bus stop on Greenmount where me and Zahara used to wait after sneaking out to see the boys.
The corner store where we’d buy Hot Cheetos and quarter waters with coins we’d stolen from Baba’s register.
The laundromat where we’d hide sometimes, just to have somewhere warm that wasn’t home.
My hands turned down our old street without permission. Like the car knew where I needed to go even if my brain was screaming to keep driving.
The house looked smaller than I remembered.
Same faded brick row-house. Same chain-link fence. Same narrow porch where Baba used to sit like he was king of his own kingdom. Twelve years ago, I’d walked out that front door with blood on my clothes and nothing but my sister’s hand in mine.
Zahara should be here. We were supposed to face him together.
But Zahara was dead. And I was alone.
I wiped my eyes, put the car in drive, and pulled away from that house for the last time.
The hospital smelled like bleach and bad news.
I walked past the information desk, past the gift shop with its sad teddy bears, toward Room 412. ICU wing. Critical but stable.
Good. I wanted him awake when I said what I came to say.
I rounded the corner and stopped.
Mehar was standing outside the room, arms wrapped around herself. She was wearing a long dress and hijab—modest, conservative—but even from twenty feet away I could see something was wrong.
Then I saw him. Her husband. Some dusty-looking nigga in work clothes, mid-fifties, with a gut and a face that said he’d never smiled a day in his life. He was in her face, finger pointed, voice low but sharp.
“—told you to have dinner ready on TIME. I work twelve-hour shifts at that factory and I come home to what? Cold food?”
“I was here with Baba, I didn’t realize—”
“You didn’t REALIZE?” He grabbed her arm. Hard enough that she winced. “You have ONE job.”
“Hey.”
Both their heads snapped toward me.
His eyes traveled over me—my jeans, my uncovered hair—and I watched the judgment settle on his face.
“Who are you?”
“Her sister. Get your hands off her.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Men like him weren’t used to being challenged.
“This is family business,” he said, but his hand dropped.
“She IS my family.”
He looked at Mehar. Then me. Calculating whether this was worth a scene in a hospital with witnesses everywhere.
“I have to get to work.” He straightened his shirt. “Dinner on the table at six. Not six-fifteen. SIX.”
He walked past me, shoulder brushing mine. A power move.
I didn’t flinch.
When he disappeared around the corner, I turned to Mehar. She was trembling. And now that I was closer, I could see what the hijab had been hiding.
There was a purplish bruise on her cheekbone. I hated this. Our father had sent her to a man just as bad as he was.
“Did he do this to you?”
She tried to pull away. “It’s nothing. I fell.”
“Don’t lie to me. Not about this.”
Her whole body crumpled. She sagged against the wall, sobbing.
“He’s not as bad as Baba,” she whispered. “That’s what I tell myself. He doesn’t beat me as bad as Baba beat you and Zahara. So it could be worse, right?”
“That’s not a marriage. That’s a prison.”
“I know. But where would I go? I have no money. No education. Ahmad controls everything.”
“When you’re ready to leave, you call me.” I grabbed her hands. “I got out. Zahara got out. And we had NOTHING. You have more than we had because you have ME.”
Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. But something else was there too. Hope.
“You’d really help me?”
“You’re my blood. Of course I will.” I squeezed her hands. “When you’re ready, I’ll come get you. I promise.”
She nodded slowly.
“Now I need to handle something.” I turned toward Room 412. “This won’t take long.”
The room was dim. Machines beeping. That antiseptic smell mixed with something else—sickness. Decay.
And there he was.
Shamir Ali. My father. The monster of my childhood.
He looked small. That was the first thing I noticed. In my memories, he was massive. Towering. But the man in that hospital bed was shrunken. Tubes running in and out of him. Bandages wrapped around his throat. Machines breathing for him.
His eyes were closed when I walked in. But as I got closer, they fluttered open. Unfocused at first.
Then they landed on me.
Recognition dawned. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened—tried to speak—but nothing came out except a wet, gurgling sound. The tube in his throat whistled. His hands clawed at the bed rails.
“Shut up.”
My voice was calm. Cold.
“I’m not here to hurt you. Unlike SOME people, I don’t put my hands on defenseless family members.”
He stilled. But his eyes were locked on my face. Trying to figure out which daughter was standing in front of him.
“It’s Zainab. The one whose ID was found on Zahara’s body in California.”
His brow furrowed.
“Zahara’s dead, Baba. Been dead for three years. Murdered. Shot in the head by a man who was looking for ME.” I let that land. “He found her instead. Thought she was me because we were identical twins. The blessing you threw away like garbage.”
Something changed in his eyes. Not grief. The realization that he’d lost property. Not a person.
“She’s dead because of YOU.” I stepped closer. “Because you beat us bloody and threw us out. Because you forced us to survive on our own. Every bad thing that happened after that night traces right back to YOUR doorstep.”
His mouth was moving. Gurgling. Pathetic sounds from his ruined throat.
“What’s that? You’re sorry?” I leaned in, mocking. “Save it. I didn’t come for your apology.”
I pulled out my phone. Scrolled to a picture I had of Zahara holding baby Yusef. Both of them smiling.
I held it up so he could see.
“This is your grandson. Yusef. Zahara’s son. He’s twelve now. Smart. Talented. Plays piano like an angel.” I watched his eyes take in the image. “You’ll never meet him. Never know him. You forfeited that right when you threw his mother into the street.”
Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Running into the bandages.
Good.
“And whoever did THIS to you?” I gestured at his broken body. “You deserved it. Every bit of it. I hope every breath you take reminds you of what you did to us.”
His hand reached out—trembling, weak—trying to grab me.
I stepped back. Out of his reach.
“This is the last time you’ll ever see me. I’m not your daughter anymore. Haven’t been for twelve years.”
I turned and walked toward the door. Then stopped.
“You know what the worst part is?” My voice was soft now.
“I spent twelve years afraid of you. Nightmares. Flinching every time a man raised his voice. But look at you now.” I shook my head.
“You’re nothing. A sad, weak old man who tried to destroy his family and failed.
WE survived. We thrived. We became everything you said we’d never be. ”
I opened the door.
“Goodbye, Baba. I hope the rest of your life is very long. And very painful.”
I walked out and didn’t look back.
Mehar was gone when I got to the hallway. Probably went to the cafeteria or bathroom to pull herself together before heading home to make dinner for that sorry excuse for a husband.
I’d meant what I said. When she was ready, I’d be there.
The parking garage was cold and quiet. My footsteps echoed off the concrete as I walked to the car. I sat behind the wheel for a minute, just breathing.
I’d done it.
Faced the monster. Said what I’d been carrying for twelve years. Showed him everything he’d lost. Everything he’d never have.
And I felt…
Light.
Like something heavy had been lifted off my chest. Something I’d been carrying so long I forgot it was even there.
I pulled out my phone.
Me: Done. On my way home.
Prime: How you feel?
I thought about it. Really thought.
Me: Free.
Prime: That’s my girl. Drive safe. I love you.
Me: I love you too.
I started the car and pulled out of the garage. Baltimore disappeared in my rearview mirror, getting smaller and smaller until it was gone.
I was never coming back.
And for the first time in twelve years, that thought didn’t scare me.
Freedom.