“We need to be realistic, Father,” he said. “You cannot manage your affairs anymore. It is time to distribute what remains before things become worse.”
Suleiman looked at his eldest son.
“What remains?”
Hamza exchanged a glance with the lawyer.
“The properties. The land. Whatever can still be recovered.”
Suleiman’s expression hardened.
“I spent forty years building those things. You have spent ten years enjoying them. And now that I need time to recover, you want to divide my life as if I were already dead?”
Nobody answered.
He dismissed them that afternoon.
Afterward, he made a decision he never announced to his family.
He would find out who loved him and who merely loved what he could provide.
But first, he needed somewhere to live.
Only Malik opened his door.
When Malik arrived to collect his father, he found the old man sitting on a wooden chair beside two small bags.
