"Good morning, this is Secretary Thomas at your service. How may I help you?" asked Thomas in his overly chirpy voice.

"It's me, Tasneem. Why did you answer Ibrahim's personal number?"

"Tasneem! Oh, sweet Jesus, I was waiting for your call!" he exclaimed.

I felt a smile creep its way onto my lips. "What happened now?"

"Poor Ibrahim was so worried about your job interview that he practically paced circles around me just waiting for your call. I had to take his phone away from him because you know how your husband needs his babysitter."

"Thomas!" yelled a deep voice on the other line, most likely Ibrahim. "Give me the damn phone."

"But I was having so much fun making fun of you," replied Thomas, clearly not feeling rueful at all.

"Thomas, do your job," grumbled Ibrahim.

"Babysitting is my job."

"Thomas."

Sighing, Thomas said a quick farewell in his dramatic nature before returning the phone to Ibrahim, who seemed quiet for a good couple of seconds. I heard some shuffling followed by a 'whack' and a muffled 'ow.' I held the laughter in, knowing the boys were probably chasing each other around the secretary office.

"Assalamualaikum," greeted Ibrahim.

Hearing his deep voice seemed to erase all the stress from today. "Waalaikumussalam," I whispered.

"Tasneem, what's wrong?"

It felt nice to know that he could read me like an open book. I didn't even have to introduce why I was upset because he could tell from the tone of my voice. "The job interview," I sighed.

"Oh?" he responded.

"She wouldn't give me the job."

"Why not? Your portfolio was perfect. I checked it five times! You should have gotten the job," he stated, his voice hinted with anger.

"Well, apparently good work doesn't equal a good job," I said, bitterly. "She wouldn't give me a job because I was married to you."

"Excuse me?"

"Ibrahim, if only you'd heard the stuff she said about you, all the insults and crimes she accused you of. I'd never felt so disrespected in my whole life. She had no right to say that you were fake and insisting that you were doing illegal activities to make it to the top. Then she-" I rambled before he cut me off.

"Whoa, Tasneem, slow down. It's okay," he reassured me. "People have said a lot to my name. It's alright."

"No, it's not alright," I whispered. "They don't know the struggles you went through. They don't know the discrimination you face every time you try to make a business deal because investors think you're incapable. They don't understand any of it!"

"Shh, sweetheart, I'm right here," he murmured. "Everything is alright."

All the fight and anger left my body, replacing it with a new form of exhaustion. "How do you do it? They take your name and put it through mud, yet you never say anything. How?" I questioned.

He softly chuckled. "Tasneem, I am the scapegoat for businesses that can't succeed. They don't need to understand me and even if they did, I'd still be the one at fault."

"That's not fair though."

"I know it isn't, but we have to pick our battles in this life," he said calmly like it didn't bother him at all, but I knew deep inside, Ibrahim hated the labels that were given to him for being a Muslim and a Turkish born man.

I sighed. "I understand."

"Hey," he started softly, "I could reach into my connections and see what I can do to that woman for her prejudice. We could make a lawsuit."

"No, like you said, the only thing we can do is fight harder. A lawsuit won't give me a job I like. I can find a different employer," I said.

"Okay."

I knew he had to hang up to get back to work, but for a moment, I relished his strength. Ibrahim's grandfather may have started a business in America, but he never expanded it. It was extremely small and didn't offer the family much. It was Ibrahim who changed all that.

He faced through so many obstacles to get to where he was today, yet he stayed silent in the face of slander and lies, never overstepping his bounds. He picked his battles and he won them. The rest of the world may have been weary, but I knew the real Ibrahim. I knew my husband.

"Hey, Ibrahim?"

"Yeah."

"I love you, no matter what anyone says about you," I whispered.

There was a brief silence, only his soft breathing heard before he finally responded. "I... I love you too."

Closing my eyes, I prayed for the day when justice would be served to those who harmed him, to those who wished death upon him, and most importantly to those who made his life even more difficult than it had to be.

* * * *

In my distress, I found myself baking a batch of cupcakes. Measuring the appropriate amounts of all the ingredients, I mixed them all together, watching the flour and sugar turn into a dark, chocolate mass of batter, soft and stringy, threatening to break my thoughts with the promise of sweetness.

I lined the pan with cupcake liners, placing one delicately in each small indent. Then, I poured a spoonful of chocolate batter into each, making a dozen in total. It was interesting how such a small amount of work managed to bring smiles to many.

It was like a light bulb went off in my head.

There was an orphanage nearby. Perhaps I could bring those children something sweet to brighten the cloudy days they always seemed to face. Ibrahim had told me that he tried to donate as much money as possible to the orphanage, but he was always too busy to actually visit them.

Orphans were exactly like Ibrahim and Bashir, children who lost their parents so young. People always said that they cared for such misfortuned children, but their lips spoke empty promises and foretold shallow lies. Many people could care less.

They didn't see the beauty behind the dirty faces, the strength behind the darkened eyes, the longing behind their smiles, the innocence behind their shaking forms. None of those people understood the orphans.

I had married a man with great wealth, but silent in his spendings. Ibrahim understood the pain the children edured, not knowing their identity, their heritage, or their family. They didn't know the legacy their parents left on the world or the love their parents bestowed upon their beloveds during their last dying breaths.

I eyed my cupcakes wearily. I'm going to need to make more.

* * * *

"Children! Look what a guest has brought you!" yelled the elderly woman, Mrs. Livingston. Her gray hair pulled into a tight bun, wrinkles caressing the once youthful pale skin beneath.

Children of all weights, heights, ages, and skin tones, ran towards me. I smiled warmly down at their eager eyes, hopeful for a slice of the luxury they had been robbed of. Gently placing the boxes of cupcakes I had made in the last few hours, I handed each child, one delicious treat.

They sat in large groups, lining the walls and the hard wooden floor beneath her, biting into the soft cakes. A little boy with hair as black as night and skin as pale as the most delicate snowdrops, sat in front of her, white frosting coating his upper lip.

I lightly laughed, pulling out a napkin and kneeling before him as I gently wiped the smudge away. His big brown eyes gazed up at me, curiously eyeing my hijab with an open mouth. I noticed the sadness that reflected from his eyes.

I frowned, worried. The boy looked about the age of seven. "What's wrong?" I asked.

He averted his gaze, the cupcake half bitten in his limp hand. "My mommy used to wear a hijab," he whispered. "The scary men ripped it off her."

My heart shattered into a million pieces, fragments drifting far away in the ocean of this young soul's despair. At such a young age, he was taught about war and the consequences. I reached a hand towards his shoulder, which he stiffened at.

"Hey," I whispered softly, pulling him close to my body. "It's okay. Remember that Allah is always on your side."

He leaned his head against my shoulder as I pulled him onto my lap once I got comfortable. "My mommy used to say that too," he sniffled. "I-I miss her."

I held him closer, rubbing soothing circles on his back as he cried into my hijab. "Shh," I murmured. The rest of the children quieted down, their eyes trained on the little boy that cried for his parents, for his mother, for the life he had before he came here.

The orphans slowly walked closer, a little girl around the same age with light brown pigtails and bronze skin, offered the little boy her cupcake. He turned in my arms, shaking his head. Instead, the girl came and embraced him, soon everyone else followed her suit. Before I knew it, small arms wrapped around me, a feeling of understanding growing from the bunch.

They shared each other's pain, not knowing the discrimination that laid beyond the orphanage, where blacks and whites couldn't get along, where police brutality raged, where Muslims were killed, where poverty reigned, and drugs took control. These children were angels in disguise, their hearts as pure as the brightest moon, Allah's blessings showering above them.

I glanced around the small orphanage, staring at the dusty chalkboard at the end of the hall, broken wooden floors creaked, and spider webs decorating the corners of the ceiling. The clothes they wore had holes, torn at the edges, and darkened by years of unsanitary conditions.

Shaking my head, I realized something had to be done. These children were not only orphans, they were kids with dreams. Their aspirations were high towards the sky, dreams growing as each day went by, filling the hole in their heart that they knew their parents left behind. Their successes would one day suppress all the hate, all the discrimination, and all the struggles they faced because with every push backward, they walked ten steps forward.

I gazed at the boy in my arms as he wiped the tears from his cheeks roughly. "What's your name?" I asked, softly not wanting to frighten him.

"I-Ibrahim."

A slow smile crept on my lips. Just like my Ibrahim, I thought. Turning to the other children, I asked for their names as well, hearing each new identity they expressed. Each child had a story to them, each one had a bright smile, and each shared the same purity as the last.

"Mrs. Livingston?"

The elderly lady smiled. "Yes, Miss Uddin?"

"Would it be possible for me to redesign the orphanage?" I asked, my fingers stroking the young boy's soft hair. I saw the glint of fear in her gray-colored eyes, her smile falling. "I could pay for all the changes. I'm really experienced in the arts and studied interior design in college. You wouldn't have to pay a thing."

"But-" she protested.

I shook my head. "These children deserve better. They're so young with bright futures ahead. I'd feel terrible if I had to leave them in such poor conditions."

"Where will you get the money?" she questioned, her voice bleak.

"I can ask my husband or use my dowry. I'll start a fundraiser, anything for these kids," I argued.

Her shoulders slumped in defeat, a genial look entering her eyes. "You have a very generous heart, Miss-"

"Call me Tasneem."

She nodded. "Tasneem."

Looking down at the boy in my arms and at the children that surrounded me, I knew deep in my heart, that I'd do anything to help them in any way that I could. Allah gave me my talent in art for a reason, and it was time to use it for the well-being of those who needed the inspiration in their lives, maybe even more than I initially expected.

Generosity came from a small thought, a seed of inspiration to be sanguine even in the face of sorrow, yet the sun always rose the next day. That seed would grow and grow, filling the world with a rich fruit, a sample of what was to come in the lush gardens of hope.