Tale#14: Bedtime Tales: Episode2: The Thirteenth Orange| Saturday
When a Dozen Just Isn’t Enough
It was one of those mellow evenings when the sun hung low like a sleepy ember, casting a golden hue across the horizon. Aymen held her children’s hands—Sara on her left, Zayn on her right—as they stepped out of the mall, their bags swaying with each stride.
Sara, 9, was animatedly talking about the purple glittery shoes she’d just gotten, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Zayn, the younger one, was already dragging his feet, his energy spent between toy aisles and snack breaks. Aymen, tired but content, watched her children with soft eyes.
As they stepped into the parking lot, a thin figure emerged near the corner, sitting quietly on the pavement. His clothes were torn, his hands outstretched, his eyes distant but gentle. Aymen’s steps slowed. She reached into her handbag, pulled out a folded note and some coins, and walked over to him.
“Here you go, uncle,” she said, placing it gently into his hands. “May Allah ease your path.”
The man looked up, his eyes welling with gratitude, but before he could say anything, Sara tugged Aymen’s arm harshly.
“Mama! Why are you giving him money?” she asked, scrunching her nose. “He’s probably just pretending. You shouldn’t help people like that.”
Aymen looked at her daughter, momentarily caught between surprise and sadness. She didn’t say much—only offered a gentle smile and said, “Let’s go home.”
The drive back was quiet at first. Zayn had curled up in the back seat, playing with the dinosaur figurine they had bought. Sara sat beside him, still frowning, arms folded.
The hum of the car was the only sound for a while, until Aymen softly broke the silence.
“Do you guys want to hear a story?”
Zayn perked up instantly. “Yes! A story, a story!”
Sara hesitated, but curiosity peeked through her pout. “What kind of story?”
“A story about oranges,” Aymen said with a twinkle in her eye.
“Once upon a time,” she began, her voice weaving warmth into the air, “in a small, dusty town, there was a man who sold oranges from a wooden cart. He had no big shop, no fancy sign—just a smile and a little wooden stall, where his oranges gleamed like little suns.
Every day, people would come to him asking for a dozen oranges. And every day, without fail, he would give them thirteen.”
Zayn tilted his head. “Thirteen? But that’s more than a dozen!”
“Exactly,” Aymen smiled. “One day, a man who had been watching this for a while finally asked him, ‘Why do you always give thirteen? Aren’t you losing money? People are only paying you for twelve.’”
“What did he say?” Sara asked, her voice softer now, her curiosity leading her back to openness.
Aymen glanced at her daughter in the rearview mirror and continued.
“The orange seller paused, wiped his brow, and smiled. He said, ‘Whenever I ask Allah for something in my life—be it health, money, or happiness—I don’t just ask for what I deserve. I ask for more. And truth be told, He gives me more. Always more. Always extra. So if I receive from Him in extra… should I not give in extra too?’”
Zayn’s eyes were wide now. “So he gives the thirteenth orange just like that?”
“Yes,” Aymen said, her voice gentle. “He called it his ‘share of gratitude.’ He said that extra orange might not mean much to him, but maybe it means something to someone else. And do you know what happened?”
“What?” both kids asked in unison.
“People began to come from nearby towns just to buy oranges from him. Because they saw kindness in his cart. Barakah—blessing—settled into his little stall. That thirteenth orange made his cart special. His business never went down. It flourished. And the man who had asked him about it?”
“Yes?” Sara whispered.
“He went home that day, holding his bag of oranges, and thought long and hard. By the time he reached his own house, he had made a decision. From now on, whenever he gave something… he’d make his dozen thirteen too.”
There was a quiet stretch of road ahead now. The city lights glowed in the distance. The car felt like a tiny universe filled with something tender and holy.
Aymen spoke again, this time more softly,
“You know, maybe that beggar today didn’t deserve our money. Maybe he did. But who are we to judge that? We’re not the ones who write destinies.”
She paused, letting her words settle like snow.
“But what if Allah is giving us blessings every day that we don’t deserve either? What if He’s sending us our thirteenth orange, over and over again, and never asking questions about whether we deserve it?”
Sara’s lips parted slightly. Her eyes looked out the window, lost in thought.
“So kids…” Aymen asked with a smile. “From now on, what will your dozen consist of?”
There was a moment of silence.
And then—
“THIRTEEN!” Zayn shouted, pumping his fists in the air.
“Thirteen,” Sara echoed, this time with a soft smile, her eyes glistening just a bit.
Aymen laughed, her heart warmed, as the car rolled down the quiet street toward home.
That night, before bed, Sara placed her new shoes carefully by her bedside and whispered into the silence,
“Ya Allah… thank You for my thirteenth orange.”
Aymen heard it from the hallway, smiled to herself, and turned off the lights.