The Eid Gift | هدية العيد
"She comes to deliver Eid money to her nephew. She stays because he's no longer a boy—and she's tired of pretending she hasn't noticed."
The Eid Gift
هدية العيد
Eid Mubarak.
The house is full of family—cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents. The whole clan gathered for Eid al-Adha, the way we do every year.
But this year is different.
This year, I notice my nephew Omar.
I'm Khala Dina.
His mother's younger sister. Forty-three, divorced, childless. The family's well-meaning failure, always pitied at gatherings.
"Poor Dina," they say. "Still alone."
They don't know how I like being alone.
They don't know what I do when I'm alone.
Omar is twenty-four now.
When did that happen? Last I remember, he was twelve, annoying his sisters, eating too much knafeh. Now he's tall, broad-shouldered, with a beard that makes him look like his father did thirty years ago.
"Eid Mubarak, Khala," he says, kissing my cheek.
"Eid Mubarak." I hand him his envelope—eidi, the traditional gift. "Use it wisely."
"Always do." He smiles.
That smile.
I shouldn't notice.
He's my nephew. My sister's son. I've known him since birth.
But those shoulders. Those eyes. That confidence he didn't have as a teenager.
Astaghfirullah, Dina. Get yourself together.
The day goes on.
Food, prayers, more food. The men slaughter the sheep, the women cook, the children run wild.
I find myself watching Omar.
The way he moves. The way he laughs. The way he catches me looking and doesn't look away.
"You're staring at me, Khala."
We're in the kitchen. Alone, briefly—everyone else in the living room watching football.
"I'm not—"
"You are." He steps closer. "You have been all day."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?"
"This conversation is inappropriate."
"You're right." But he doesn't step back. "Tell me to stop. Tell me you don't feel it."
"Feel what?"
"Whatever this is." His voice is low. "I've felt it for years. I thought it was just... I thought I'd grow out of it. But you walked in today, and..."
"Omar—"
"Tell me I'm crazy."
I should tell him he's crazy.
He's my nephew. This is haram beyond haram. His mother—my sister—is in the next room.
"You're not crazy," I whisper.
Astaghfirullah.
"Meet me," he says. "Tonight. At the warehouse on Industrial Street. I have a key—it's where I work."
"I can't—"
"Midnight. Please." His hand brushes mine. "I need to know I'm not alone in this."
I shouldn't go.
The list of reasons is endless. He's family. He's young enough to be my son. This would destroy everything if anyone found out.
I go.
The warehouse is dark, empty.
He's waiting with a single lamp, blankets spread on the floor.
"You came."
"I came." I'm trembling. "This is wrong."
"I know."
"We should stop."
"I know." He crosses to me. "Do you want to stop?"
I don't want to stop.
God help me, I haven't wanted anything this badly in years.
"Kiss me," I breathe.
He kisses me like I'm precious.
Like I'm the woman he's been dreaming about, not his middle-aged khala. His hands cup my face, then slide down—my neck, my shoulders, the curves hidden beneath my modest dress.
"I've thought about this," he confesses. "Every Eid. Every family gathering. Watching you, wanting you."
"Since when?"
"Since I was old enough to understand what wanting was."
He undresses me in the lamplight.
My dress first, then my underwear. I try to cover myself—I'm forty-three, soft, nothing like the girls his age.
"Don't," he says. He moves my hands. "I want to see you."
"I'm not young."
"You're you. That's what I want."
He worships me on the blankets.
His mouth everywhere—my neck, my breasts, the soft swell of my belly. He sucks my nipples until I'm moaning, then moves lower.
"Ya Allah—Omar—"
"I've dreamed about this. Tasting you."
His tongue finds my clit.
He's not experienced—I can tell.
But what he lacks in skill, he makes up for in enthusiasm. He eats me like he's been starving, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me grip his hair.
"There—right there—"
"Like this?"
"Yes—aiwa—don't stop—"
I come in my nephew's mouth.
On Eid night. In a warehouse. While my sister thinks I'm home alone.
"More," he gasps. "I want more."
"Then take it."
He slides inside me.
Young and hard and eager. He gasps at the sensation—I suspect he's less experienced than he pretends.
"Okay?" I ask.
"More than okay. Khala—you feel—"
"Don't call me that. Not now."
"Dina." He moves deeper. "You feel incredible."
We find our rhythm.
Slow at first, then faster. He learns my body quickly—what angles work, what speed I need.
"Yes—harder—"
"I don't want to hurt—"
"You won't. Harder."
He gives me harder.
Pounding into me on the warehouse floor, his young body tireless. I come again, and again, years of loneliness spilling out with every orgasm.
"I'm close—" he groans.
"Inside me. Please."
"But—"
"I can't get pregnant. Please. I want to feel you."
He spills inside me with a cry.
Collapsing on top of me, his weight welcome after so long with no one.
"Astaghfirullah," he whispers.
"Astaghfirullah."
Neither of us moves.
"What happens now?" he asks.
"I don't know."
"I can't go back to pretending. Seeing you at gatherings and pretending I don't want this."
"We can't tell anyone."
"I know." He props himself up. "But between us... can this continue?"
"It shouldn't."
"That's not what I asked."
It continues.
Secret meetings. Different locations. The warehouse. My apartment when he tells his mother he's working late. A hotel in the Dead Sea when we both lie about business trips.
"This is madness," I say.
"This is us."
One year later
"I want to marry you."
We're in bed at the hotel. He's just made me come twice and I'm boneless.
"What?"
"Marry me. Properly."
"Omar, we're—"
"There's no blood prohibition. I checked. It's makruh—disliked—but not haram. We could do it."
"Your mother would never—"
"My mother doesn't control my life."
"This is crazy."
"This is love." He takes my hand. "I love you, Dina. Not as my khala. As the woman I want to spend my life with."
"I'm almost twenty years older than you."
"I don't care."
"People will talk."
"Let them."
We don't tell the family.
Not all of it. Just that Omar has found someone. That he's getting married. That they'll meet her at the ceremony.
The ceremony they don't know is already done—we had nikah in private, just us and the imam.
The reveal is... difficult.
My sister screams. His father threatens. The family fractures for months.
But Omar doesn't waver.
"She's my wife," he tells them. "Accept it or don't. But we're not separating."
Three years later
Some of the family has come around.
Not all. But enough. His sisters speak to me again. His mother occasionally acknowledges my existence.
And every Eid, we attend together.
Husband and wife.
"Eid Mubarak," he says, handing me an envelope.
"What's this?"
"Eidi. Your gift."
I open it. Inside, a note:
Seventeen more years of you. That's what I want.
"Seventeen?"
"That's how much older you are. I want seventeen years for every year of difference. Think we can manage?"
I kiss him.
"I think we can."
Eid Mubarak, indeed.
May God's blessings cover us.
Even us.
Especially us.
The End.