Chapter Nine: When Joy Was Touched by Trial

 Nīkah Written by Qādr, Tested by Genotype

Chapter Nine: When Joy Was Touched by Trial

It had been over a month since we got married, and everything in our lives was moving with a calmness that felt almost perfect. Our homes were filled with peace, our hearts were content, and the people around us shared in our happiness. Family members visited often, friends checked on us, and every day carried a sense of gratitude that we could not ignore.

Marriage had not taken away our joy; instead, it had deepened it. We were adjusting, learning, and growing into our new roles with a sincerity that made everything feel natural. Our husbands treated us with care, our families supported us, and we, the four of us, remained as close as ever despite living in different homes.

Everything felt right.

Until the first test arrived.

It started with Sajidah.

One afternoon, she called us with a voice that carried something we had never heard before. It was not just excitement; it was something deeper, something that made us all pause.

“I have something to tell you,” she said.

We were all on the call—Tasliyah, Sawberah, and I—waiting for her to continue.

“What is it?” Tasliyah asked quickly.

There was a brief silence, then Sajidah spoke.

“I am pregnant.”

For a moment, none of us said anything.

Then suddenly, everything exploded with sound.

“Allahu Akbar!” Tasliyah shouted.

“Ya Allah, really?” Sawberah added, her voice filled with joy.

I felt my heart lift as I smiled widely. “Sajidah, that is beautiful. Alhamdulillah.”

She laughed softly, clearly overwhelmed. “I was so nervous to tell you.”

“Nervous?” Tasliyah said. “This is the best news!”

Sawberah added gently, “May Allah protect the baby and make everything easy for you.”

“Ameen,” we all said together.

Then, as expected, the teasing began.

Tasliyah laughed. “So you are the first among us? You couldn’t even wait!”

Sajidah replied, “It is not a competition!”

“Oh, it is now,” Tasliyah said jokingly.

I smiled. “We will see who is next.”

Sajidah laughed. “Maybe one of you already is and doesn’t know yet.”

We all laughed at that, not knowing how true those words would soon become.

In the days that followed, Sajidah was treated with so much care and attention. Her family surrounded her with love, her husband became even more protective, and we, her friends, made sure to check on her constantly.

She glowed with happiness.

And then, within a few weeks, something unexpected happened.

It was my turn.

When I found out, I sat quietly for a long time, trying to process what it meant. My heart was filled with emotions I could not fully explain—joy, fear, gratitude, and a deep sense of responsibility.

When I told them, the reaction was just as loud as before.

“Tahira!” Sajidah shouted. “I knew it!”

Tasliyah laughed. “This is not normal anymore. What is happening?”

Sawberah smiled warmly. “Alhamdulillah. This is a blessing.”

They celebrated with me just as they had celebrated with Sajidah, teasing me endlessly.

“So the careful one did not wait after all,” Tasliyah said.

I laughed. “This is Allah’s plan, not mine.”

“Of course,” Sajidah replied. “Now we are two.”

But it did not stop there.

One after another, within weeks of each other, Tasliyah and Sawberah also became pregnant. It was as if our lives were moving in perfect alignment, each of us stepping into motherhood almost at the same time.

The excitement grew even stronger.

Our families were overjoyed beyond words. We were treated with a level of care we had never experienced before. Our husbands became more attentive, bringing us different things, making sure we were comfortable, and doing everything they could to support us.

We spent hours talking about our pregnancies, sharing experiences, laughing about our cravings, and imagining what our children would be like.

It felt like a dream.

But life does not remain in one state forever.

As the months passed and we approached the sixth and seventh month, things began to change.

The first sign came with Tasliyah.

One day, the news reached us, and it did not come with laughter or excitement.

It came with fear.

Tasliyah had a miscarriage.

The words did not feel real when we first heard them. We rushed to her side, our hearts heavy, our minds struggling to understand what had happened.

When we saw her, she looked different.

Not physically, but emotionally.

There was a silence in her that we had never seen before.

She tried to stay strong, but her pain was visible in the way she spoke, in the way she avoided our eyes at times, and in the way she held onto her husband for comfort.

“We were so close,” she said softly.

None of us knew what to say.

We sat with her, holding her hands, making du‘ā’, and trying to remind her that Allah’s plan is always greater than our understanding.

But the pain was real.

And it stayed.

Not long after, she gave birth, but the situation was not what we had hoped for. Her baby, still very young, began to show signs of illness. What should have been a moment of pure joy became one filled with concern and fear.

The baby was affected by an infection, and the sickness grew in a way that none of us expected.

The happiness we once shared began to fade into worry.

Then Sajidah gave birth.

Her baby was healthy.

Strong.

There were no complications.

We felt a sense of relief, holding onto the hope that perhaps the difficulty was only temporary.

Then Sawberah gave birth.

Her baby was also fine.

Clear of any issues.

We held onto that, trying to balance our emotions between relief and concern.

And then it was my turn.

The day I gave birth was one I will never forget.

It started normally, with the usual preparations and expectations. But as the moment came, something went wrong.

My baby did not breathe.

The room shifted instantly.

What should have been filled with joy became filled with urgency.

The doctors moved quickly, their expressions serious, their actions focused. I could not fully understand what was happening, but I could feel the fear spreading through the room.

“Why is he not crying?” I asked weakly.

No one answered immediately.

They kept trying.

Seconds felt like minutes.

Minutes felt like hours.

My heart felt like it would stop.

I whispered, “Ya Allah… please…”

Then finally, after what felt like an eternity, a sound broke through the silence.

My baby cried.

It was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard.

The doctors stepped back, relief visible on their faces.

“He is breathing,” one of them said.

Tears fell from my eyes as I held onto that moment.

But even with that, the weight of everything that had happened did not disappear.

At that point, all of us had faced something.

Tasliyah’s baby was sick.

My baby had struggled to breathe.

Only Sajidah and Sawberah seemed to be free from complications.

Our families, once filled with celebration, now carried a different kind of atmosphere.

There was worry.

There was confusion.

And there was one question that no one could answer.

Why now?

Why all of us?

People began to talk.

The same community that once celebrated us now looked at us with concern and curiosity.

“How can all four of them face difficulties at the same time?”

“What is happening?”

“Is this a test?”

The question echoed in every conversation.

And in our hearts, we felt it deeply.

This was a test.

A test we did not see coming.

A test that arrived at a time when we thought everything was perfect.

A test that shook everything we believed we understood.

And for the first time, we began to realize that there were things we had ignored.

Things we had not considered.

Things that were now standing before us as reality.

Our happiness had been touched by trial.

And nothing felt the same anymore.