The tranquility of the moment was shattered by a sudden outburst, this time not a piercing scream but a thunderous voice that unmistakably belonged to my mother. A shared glance with my companion conveyed our mutual dread – this couldn't be happening again.
As we hurried towards the source of the commotion, my mother's menacing shout reached our ears, sending a chill down our spines. Rushing into the room, we were met with a sight we hadn't anticipated - my mother launching herself at Zina. With a fierce grip on Zina's hair and her fist poised to strike, chaos erupted until Mohammed intervened. As the tumult subsided, I noticed a shattered painting on the ground, depicting my mother's smiling visage in the garden. It stirred memories of a day when she had looked upon me from within the confines of the frame, a day when my father had regaled me with amusing anecdotes about their time in my absence.
