Chapter Text
Much to Isis’ dismay, there were few memories she had of her mother. Occasionally, a laugh echoing down the hall at work or a smile from a stranger in the market would bring back a faint recollection of the woman she’d lost at the tender age of four.
But one memory clung to Isis like no other. And for better or worse, she indulged in it almost every day.
“Isis! The om ali has been in the oven for almost twenty minutes!”
Rishid’s voice, usually so calm, held a twinge of concern as it reverberated through the kitchen. In response, Isis rushed out from her bedroom-turned-home-office, barely saving the precious dessert from burning to a crisp. She caught her breath and composed herself enough to reassure Rishid that their apartment would live to see another day.
Ever since relinquishing the Millennium Tauk, Isis had found the concept of time rather elusive. Cooking especially had become a task that required her to rely on timers, wrist watches and the occasional worried brother to make sure she made something edible.
Like today’s main attraction.
Isis looked down at the near-disaster sitting atop the oven. The sweet smells from the fruit and nuts assured Isis that, despite its bedraggled appearance, the dish would taste amazing. After all, it had always been a little burnt when it was made by—
“We’re back!”
Malik’s loud presence and usual kiss from behind were a welcome comfort after the debacle in the kitchen.
“And we’re starved.”
Another blond head made its way into Isis’ periphery, and a second kiss was planted on her cheek. Isis chuckled in amusement at how, despite being born from her little brother’s hate, Najjad sounded and acted so similar to Malik, down to his overly-affectionate nature.
“I take it it was another rousing day at the races?” Isis turned to face her brothers, clad in biker gear and their faces covered with dust. “Both of you, clean up first. Then we’ll eat.”
Malik and Najjad rolled their eyes at the same time and slinked to the bathroom down the hall.
“Yes, mother.”
Isis shook her head as the two voices matched in perfect harmony. But a second later, she looked down again at the creamy, slightly crisped dish… and the significance of her brothers’ words seemed a little too fitting.
“I wish you’d gotten to make it for them yourself, om.”
Isis didn’t think her voice was audible, until she felt Rishid’s hands gently grasp her shoulders.
“The way you make it, sister… her presence is always here.”
Isis smiled and turned around to be fully embraced by Rishid. A few moments later, Malik and Najjad bounded back into the room, cleaned up and hungry as ever.
And as they passed dinner around the table and ended with the delectable om ali, Isis knew Rishid was right. She could never replace their mother. But through her favorite food, Isis would ensure that the family’s love for her lived on forever.