2015

They were at the traffic light just before taking the right to their final destination.

"Cham mara gayelek latmed eedik 3ala ekhtik, laish ma tefham inta?" he interrogated his eyes in the rear-view mirror. His son, 6 years old, was in the back seat trying to grab his sister's chocolate milk drink. "Wintay laish 7azra, laish mo yayba 7ag okhoch wa7ed thani?" he said, leaning to his left to meet his daughter's face seated at his right hand side. The kids looked at one another, and started giggling. He smiled. This was their routine: the boy would get on the girl's nerve, ultimately getting on their father's nerve altogether. Their father, as always, would lecture them about "Ma lekom a7ad bel denya gair ba3ath 3ogbi ana o omkom." He knew his kids did not yet grasp the idea of "ma lekom 7ad gair ba3ath". Let alone understand what he was saying over a fucking 250ml of chocolate milk! One day they will. One day they surely will. Light was green now.

He parked, as usual, about 100 meters away from the school gate. His daughter, as usual, let out a groan ".. not agaaain!" He just smiled at her, holding the door open with one hand and her backpack in the other, "Out we go, princess". He had his reasons for parking a bit far from the gate each morning. He leaned in to meet his son's eyes, "wenta 3ami? Khalas mako madresa 7athrat janabek?"

Hands folded across the chest, his son started his rant about how you do not need to go to school to be a race-car driver. He just shook his head, grinning at the absurd excuses his son was coming up with every single morning to try to skip school. "Sawoha eli ash6ar menek, o ma 6aafat 3ala yadik", he said. His daughter, still not finished with the chocolate milk, was shaking her head at her brother. "You're very silly" she told him. "Yes, he is, isn't he?" her father agreed, going to the other door, opening it and grabbing his son's bag. The trio made their way across the street.

He held the two bags in his right hand, stretching his left to hold his daughter's tiny hand. Looking over to his right for the incoming traffic near the school, he told his son to hold his sister's hand. As if insulted by it, as usual, his son started reciting the same old "ana ikbeer agdar a3ber el shari3 ebro7i" essay. Which, by the way, was an ongoing process since he was three years old.

Reaching the gate, he greeted the teacher on gate-duty and handed his children their bags. "Now, be good and make me and your mom proud" he instructed, as usual. His daughter nodded, and handed him the now light and empty carton of chocolate milk. His son nodded too. He stood up, and watched his kids holding hands making their way to the school door. He waited for it. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

There it was. They turned around, and waved. He waved back. The things he would give up to have it every single morning for the rest of his life.

He made his way back to his car, when his phone started ringing. He couldn't wait to see what it was today. "Denyetik" was the caller's ID. His wife had this thing for changing her phone number's entry name in his mobile each Friday night, so that she would keep him guessing all Saturday morning as he was driving the kids to school what it was. A move she picked up from him during their milcha everytime they went out.

"Denyeti", he replied, "eeh wasalt'hom". The remainder of the call is unsuitable to disclose. But they decided they'd somehow be late a full 2 hours for work that morning.