Through the Cracks

Don’t forget to defrost the meat.

Last time you set it out too late.

Make sure you wake up early and do it this time.

Samira repeated the instructions to herself, burning them to memory. It seemed like a simple task, but it could very well be the only thing standing between her and the Weeknd concert this Saturday night. She had bought the tickets months ago– planned carefully, saved diligently– but no early-bird discount came close to appeasing her mother.

Hamida kept a tight grip on her daughter. Praise was rare. Approval, even rarer.

Samira pulled out a large steel pot and dropped in the frozen clunk of beef– four solid pounds, stiff as stone. She turned on the faucet and glanced out the kitchen window above the sink. The sky was white and empty, the sun nowhere to be found. Clouds lingered low, teasing something heavier on the horizon.

Steam rose as the water warmed. She adjusted the pot beneath the tap and let it fill slowly, water slipping into the crevices of the frozen meat. The beef had been saved from last Eid, when neighbors and relatives passed around freshly cut halal meat like an unspoken carousel of generosity. She remembered that day clearly– not because of the food, but because she’d wanted to see Fatima for her Friends Eid gathering.

Hamida had other plans.

This time would be different.

Samira had prepared for every objection she knew was coming.

It’s too cold. She would bundle up.

It’s too late. Fatima would drive her home before eleven.

The house needs cleaning. It would be spotless before she left.

The meat sat quietly, thawing. Hamida returned home every day at precisely 5:15 PM– timed perfectly with her bus ride from Burger King, where she worked long shifts as a line cook. Samira scanned the apartment, searching for anything her mother might use against her.

The hardwood floors stretched across the living room– worn, dull, impossible to make shine no matter how much they were scrubbed. She grabbed the Swiffer and began mopping anyway.

Sami– don’t do it like this. Do it like this.

Her mother’s voice echoed from childhood. Back then, their one-bedroom apartment had floors smooth enough to slide bare feet across. Clean enough for Hamida to sleep on the floor with a makeshift tarp, giving Samira the only twin bed they owned. Quiet sacrifices, a love language expressed in acts of service. The same bedframe still stood in Samira’s room.

She moved on, wiping dust from the planters on the floating shelves. A gray film coated her fingertip. She grabbed a duster and worked quickly, eyes darting around the apartment like a hawk searching for imperfections.Her lower back ached– a familiar soreness from years of chores– but she ignored it. She kept going until the soft clink of keys rattled outside the door.

Hamida entered without ceremony, slipping off her shoes and dropping her bag onto the chair by the entrance. Silver strands streaked through her once jet-black hair.

“Did you–”

“Yes,” Samira cut in quickly. “The beef is defrosting.”

Her shoulders tensed instinctively. Approval was currency, earned through obedience.

“I bought oranges,” Hamida said, placing a plastic bag on the table. “Fresh from today.”

She glanced toward the kitchen. “Did you use hot water?”

“No I used cold,” Samira replied flatly.

Hamida nodded, already turning away.

“How do the floors look, Ammu?”

“The same as they’ve looked for fifteen years.”

“I mopped and vacuumed.”

No response.

“I wiped the planters. Boiled the rice. Cleaned the counter and stove. Restocked the paper towels.”

Hamida scanned the apartment once, lips pursed, and gave a faint nod. It was enough.

“Amma,” Samira began carefully, “you know I’m going to a concert this Saturday?”

“A concert?” Hamida’s gaze sharpened. “What concert?”

“The Weeknd.”

“This weekend?”

“No- The Weeknd. He makes music.”

Hamida frowned. “Sami, I don’t like this American music. Always haram. Sex, drugs. Always bad.”

“That’s why you’re not going,” Samira muttered.

Hamida sighed. “When is it?”

“This Saturday.”

Hamida paused.

“You can’t go.”

“Why?” Samira asked with a higher pitch in her voice.

“There’s a storm coming.”

“Just rain? Ammu, I did everything.”

“No means no.”

“I spent seventy dollars– Fatima and I—”

“Then ask her parents,” Hamida said sharply. “It’s a no.”

Samira, defeated, fled to the bathroom with eyes burning. This wasn’t over.

That night, Hamida moved quietly through the apartment. Samira laid on her bed, back turned towards the door. Hamida slipped past and opened the living room window. The fire escape groaned beneath her weight as she stepped outside.

She lit a cigarette. The sky deepened to a heavy blue, clouds gathering thick and low.

Hami— get inside.

Her mother’s voice returned, urgent and afraid. In Narayanganj, their village in Bangladesh, monsoons arrived every spring. They would flood homes, tearing roofs apart, blurring the line between survival and loss. The elders called it Allah’s tears. A punishment, a cleansing of their sins.

Hamida’s mother had an authoritarian approach– raising her to be dutiful and submissive. A strong candidate for marriage and hopefully a gateway out of poverty. However, less was expected with Hamida’s brother, Harun, who was free to do most things. Stay out late, skip chores, have fun. Unfortunately, he was just as stubborn as Hamida with less repercussions. He was warned, just like Hamida, to return home prior to the storm. He had returned home drenched, and later that night caught a fever. The rain seeped through the cracks of their shoddy, metal roofs and the wind drafted a breeze through the walls. Harun never recovered from the fever, passing away a few days later. This became a directive for her mother to tighten her grip around Hamida– to not just pass storms, but how she dressed, ate, talked, and carried herself.

Harun? Why’d you have to go play outside? Why didn’t Amma watch after you? Does she not worry about you like she worried about me? Why didn’t I join you?

Hamida’s eyes grew watery. She crushed the cigarette and climbed back inside.

The next day, the clouds seemed heavier as rain seemed to be a looming threat. Hamida walked home from the bus stop wrapped in layers– a poncho, large brown boots, and an oversized umbrella. She wiped her shoes carefully at the door.

“Sami!” she called. “Did you take out the garbage?”

No answer. Her brows furrowed, noticing Samira’s shoes were missing from the shoerack. Her umbrella remained by the door.

Samira ducked into Fatima’s car two blocks away, rain already speckling the windshield.

“Get in!” Fatima laughed. “So glad your mom let you come.”

Samira forced a smile. Her phone buzzed endlessly.

Where are you?

It’s cold.

I told you about the rain.

Back home, Hamida sat alone in the bedroom. She picked up an old Polaroid from Samira’s childhood– second grade, gap-toothed grin, eyes defiant.

Amma, does Santa come to our house too?

Astagfirullah! No! That’s haram. We don’t do this Sami. Not for us.

Sarah said she gets toys every Christmas.

Sarah’s parents are rich, that’s why.

Huh? Amma, Santa Claus is rich?

No jaan, he’s not real.

I don’t… believe you. I will find out myself. I will stay up.

Hamida knew there was no way of faking gifts in their tiny apartment.

If Santa wants to sneak into this apartment, he’ll have to climb up this fire escape.

Hamida stood up. She knew Samira too well, stubborn just like her. She knew what to do.

Samira left the concert venue with Fatima. They waited under the cover of the balcony nestled above the entrance after the show. Dense, gray clouds consumed the sky as heavy rainfall poured from above. Fatima brought an umbrella but it was just large enough for her as she darted away to get her car.

She waited back, shivering in the cold with the mist of the heavy rain speckling her skin.

In the distance, a silhouette of someone with a slight hunch in their back wearing a long coat. Armed with nothing but a lone umbrella shielding them from the rain. It appeared mystical– as if the rain poured down everywhere but them. Peering further into the distance, something seemed familiar. Silver streaks in the otherwise black hair gleamed under the streetlamp. The brown boots, long poncho, and oversized umbrella.

“Amma?”

Hamida stood in the rain, unflinching.