Muqaddas sat in her kitchen chair, rosary beads resting on the low table beside her cup of cardamom tea. The afternoon had been quiet. Too quiet.
Seven pairs of bare feet thundered across the courtyard. The front door banged open, and Amina, Maryam, Aziza, Samira, Abdulkabir, Muhammad, and Muhammad Ali tumbled in shoulder to shoulder.
"Amma, Amma!" they called over each other. Amina grabbed a bowl. Aziza tipped a jar of dates. Flour puffed into the air like snow.
She lifted the spoon again, but they only pushed harder. "Me first!" "No, me!" The kitchen felt too small for seven excited voices.
Muqaddas clapped once. Every hand froze. She pointed to the corner where the large woven tray waited, and said, "The feast is for all seven hands." The arguing stopped. Curiosity rippled through the group.
They lined up at the counter side by side. Rolling. Shaping. Filling. Their small hands learned from each other, clumsy at first, then sure.
The tray overflowed — golden treats piled high, fragrant rice steaming beside them. The kitchen smelled like warm cinnamon and cardamom.
The children stepped back together. Their flour-dusted faces pressed close, and they laughed — the feast was theirs because they made it together.
Muqaddas carried the heaviest dish to the low table. The children set out cups and spoons, calling each other by name and passing plates with careful hands.
They sat in a circle around the feast. The soft lantern glow settled over them as they broke bread side by side — seven hands, one table, one family.
