CHOSEN BY AR-REHMAN

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"And He created for you from yourselves mates and made for you of your children and your relatives affection and mercy…"

— Surah Ar-Rum, Ayah 21

("Indeed, in that are signs for a people who give thought.")

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The morning started with a war.

Not the global kind.

Not even a dramatic kind.

Just... the kind where Zayan, the youngest, declared himself the king of the breakfast table and threw a tantrum over who got the last chocolate croissant.

"Fatima got two yesterday!" he screamed, dramatically pointing an accusing finger as if he were in a courtroom drama. "And Umar bhai always steals my orange juice!"

Umar, with his usual poker face, slowly turned from the fridge and sipped Zayan's orange juice — right in front of him.

"Guilty as charged," he said.

"UMAAAAR BHAAAAIIII!" Zayan howled like a betrayed emperor.

Fatima tried to hide her laughter behind her coffee mug, but the slight snort gave her away.

"I was saving that!" Zayan yelled, running toward Fatima, hoping for justice.

She put her mug down, wiped her smile, and put her hand on his head. "Habibi, life is cruel. Especially when you live with an older twin who enjoys chaos."

Zayan huffed, muttering, "Allah sab dekh raha hai…"

Their mother peeked in from the kitchen. "Allah also sees who didn't fold their laundry yesterday."

Dead silence.

Three guilty siblings stared at each other.

Fatima looked at Umar. Umar looked at Zayan. Zayan looked at the floor.

"…Technically," Umar said, "Zayan's laundry is still in the machine."

Zayan shot him a glare. "Because you forgot to switch it!"

Before a new civil war could start, their father walked into the room with sleepy eyes, pajamas slightly crumpled, and a peaceful smile on his face — the kind only fathers know how to carry at 8am on a weekend.

"Assalamu alaikum, my soldiers of mayhem," he greeted, placing a gentle kiss on Fatima's head and ruffling Umar's hair.

Zayan ran straight to him and wrapped himself around his leg like a koala.

"Papa," he whined, "they're bullying me."

Papa raised an eyebrow. "You're the one who bit Umar's hand last night during Monopoly."

Fatima burst out laughing.

"I was going to lose Park Lane!" Zayan cried in defense. "That was survival instinct!"

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Later that day, in the living room...

Fatima was sitting cross-legged on the floor with her Qur'an open, gently reciting while Zayan sat beside her, scribbling dinosaurs into his sketchbook with his tongue sticking out.

Umar walked in, holding a bowl of popcorn. "This looks like a peaceful moment," he said, popping some in his mouth. "Should I ruin it?"

Fatima didn't even look up. "Do, and I'll tell Mumma you were the one who scratched her non-stick pan."

Umar immediately sat next to her, straightening up like a scolded schoolboy.

"I love peace," he whispered. "Peace is beautiful."

Zayan raised a hand. "Peace means Fatima appi gives me her last bite of chocolate."

Fatima raised an eyebrow. "Peace means Umar does your homework for a week."

Umar gave a nervous chuckle. "This is starting to feel like a hostage negotiation."

---

After Dhuhr prayer, the living room transformed.

Zayan, full of energy and ideas, dragged a bunch of cushions from every room in the house. "We're building the biggest indoor fort ever made!" he declared.

Fatima rolled her eyes. "You say that every weekend."

"Yeah, and every weekend it gets bigger!" he shot back, already stacking pillows like a tiny architect.

Umar joined in with an exaggerated sigh. "This better not end like last time — with the TV remote lost inside a couch cushion labyrinth."

Fatima added a blanket to the roof of the fort, tucking it into the bookshelf. "As long as no one uses my hijab pins again as fort nails, we're good."

They built. And rebuilt. And rebuilt again after Zayan sat on the roof 'accidentally.'

Inside the fort, the three of them squished together. Zayan held a flashlight under his chin and whispered spooky stories.

"…and then the jinn whispered, i want to take you with me—'"

"Zayan!" Fatima smacked a pillow at him.

"I was building tension!" he protested.

Umar snorted. "Nothing's scarier than his math test results."

Zayan lunged across the fort. "TAKE THAT BACK!"

"WAR!" Umar shouted, launching popcorn.

—

After an hour of fighting.

Zayan insisted on making pancakes "all by himself."

Fatima supervised with her arms crossed, eyebrows high, ready to intercept disaster.

Umar, in the background, started commentating like a cooking show announcer.

"And here we have Chef Zayan, age 13, fearlessly cracking an egg—oh no, that's two eggs—into the flour. Shells included. A bold choice."

Zayan glared at him. "Go away, you're banned from my restaurant."

Fatima couldn't stop laughing. "Chef Zayan, can I at least mix the batter?"

"No!" he declared. "You're the critic. You'll ruin the art."

Umar whispered, "We'll be lucky if we don't get food poisoning tonight."

Dinner that night was… interesting.

The pancakes were oddly shaped, half-burnt, and somehow crispy and soggy at the same time.

Papa took a bite and said, "MashaAllah… it's a very… avant-garde take on pancakes."

Mumma gave Zayan a big hug. "Beta, I'm proud of you. But next time, let's not use the entire bottle of vanilla essence."

Zayan grinned. "It's called flavour, Mumma."

—

At night, after Isha...

The three of them sat on the carpet in the family room, blankets sprawled, faces glowing from screen light as they watched old cartoons and threw popcorn at each other.

Their parents walked in and smiled.

Mumma sat beside Fatima, pulling her close.

"You three fight like cats in a sock," she said, smiling, "but I wouldn't trade this for the world."

Papa added, "And neither would Allah — He gave you each other as a gift. Use it with love."

Fatima looked at her twin. Umar gave a peace sign.

She turned to Zayan, now fast asleep on the pillow with popcorn in his hair.

And then she looked up, whispering a small dua in her heart.

"Ya Allah… thank You for this chaos. For this comfort. For the joy in between the mess."

The night settled in like a blanket around them.

Just laughter. Family. And love.

And three real siblings — not perfect, not poetic — just beautifully real.

Who somehow made the mess feel like home.