10/04/2025
Part 3
I found love in foreign land.
A Different Malik.
After Malik, I told myself I was done with love.
Three kids, a heart worn thin by disappointment, and a life that seemed more about surviving than living—I couldn’t imagine opening myself up again. The thought of starting over felt exhausting, not exciting. I moved through my days on autopilot: working, mothering, existing.
But life, as always, had its own plans.
I met Ibrahim at a community event for immigrants—a gathering meant to foster connections, though I had only gone for the free childcare and a brief escape from the four walls of my home. He wasn’t like Malik. Where Malik was reserved and steady, Ibrahim was vibrant and talkative, always with a joke at the ready and a wide, inviting smile.
At first, I kept my distance. I didn’t want charm; I wanted peace. I wasn’t interested in butterflies or stolen glances—I wanted stability.
But Ibrahim wasn’t trying to romance me. He didn’t offer grand promises or poetic lines. Instead, he spoke about his struggles: the difficulty of balancing three part-time jobs, the loneliness of starting over at 40, and the sting of a marriage that had ended long before he left home.
We bonded over shared exhaustion—two people who weren’t searching for love but found solace in honest conversations. No masks, no pretences—just raw, unfiltered reality.
It started with small things: him offering to help fix my leaking kitchen tap, me packing an extra sandwich for him when we both worked late shifts. There was no rush, no pressure—just a quiet companionship that grew stronger with time.
When he finally told me he had feelings for me, I didn’t know how to respond. My heart, still tender from Malik’s betrayal, hesitated. But Ibrahim didn’t push.
"I know you’ve been hurt," he said softly. "I’m not asking you to forget—I’m asking if you’re willing to heal with me."
And so, I let him in—not as a savior, but as a partner. Someone who understood that love wasn’t always a blazing fire—it could be a steady ember, warm and constant.
Of course, the world had opinions. My mother, upon hearing about Ibrahim, sighed heavily over the phone.
"Another man already? Be careful, my daughter. You have children to think about."
Friends whispered, too—some out of concern, others out of curiosity. "Are you sure he’s not just using you to get settled?" "What if he’s another Malik in disguise?"
Their doubts didn’t surprise me. After all, I had my own.
But Ibrahim stayed. Through the late-night hospital runs with the kids, through my moments of doubt and fear, through the days when I couldn’t see past my own scars—he stayed.
Then, life threw me an unexpected curveball.
At a routine parent-teacher meeting at my children’s school, I saw him—Malik. The first Malik. He was standing at the entrance, talking to one of the teachers, his head tilted slightly the way it always did when he was listening intently. My heart, traitorous as ever, skipped a beat.
We exchanged polite greetings at first, co-parenting cordiality at its finest. But then, one meeting led to another. A shared concern about our eldest struggling with math. A brief conversation about a school event. And suddenly, it wasn’t just about the kids anymore.
It was the way he offered me his chair when the room was full, how he remembered that I liked my coffee black with a hint of sugar. It was the familiar softness in his voice when he spoke to me, the quiet glances when he thought I wasn’t looking.
One evening, after a long discussion about the children’s summer activities, he stopped me as I was about to leave.
"You look tired," he said, his hand lightly brushing my arm. "Are you okay?"
And just like that, the wall I had carefully built around my heart cracked again.
The memories of the man I first fell in love with—the man who once walked me home in the rain and gave me his jacket without a word—came rushing back.
Slowly, we reconnected. It wasn’t dramatic or sudden—it was a series of small moments that reignited something I thought was long gone. Regretfully, I found myself drifting from Ibrahim. He noticed, of course—he always noticed everything.
One evening, I finally told him.
"I’m sorry, Ibrahim," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I didn’t mean for this to happen."
His eyes, kind as ever, held mine for a long moment before he nodded softly.
"I just want you to be happy," he replied. "Even if it’s not with me."
Now, as Malik and I cautiously rebuild what we once had, I find myself thinking about Ibrahim often—not with regret, but with gratitude. He reminded me that love could be gentle, that my heart could still feel.
And so, I’ve made it my mission to find someone for Ibrahim. He deserves a woman who sees him for the steady, patient man he is—a woman ready to love him the way he once tried to love me.
Because sometimes, a different Malik isn’t meant to be your forever—but he can still be a beautiful part of your story.
to be continued...
