It was the scent of rosewater in the air that told me she was still with us—until it faded.
You won’t find my name in any hadith, but I was a young maid in the house of Khadijah bint Khuwaylid. She was the first wife of Prophet Muhammad ﷺ and the first person to believe in his message. I had come to serve her just a few years before her final illness. When I first arrived, I was nervous. Mecca was not kind to believers, and I didn’t know what it meant to live in the house of the Prophet ﷺ. But Khadijah welcomed me like a daughter. She was kind, calm, and always gave more than she received.
That year was one of sorrow. First, Khadijah’s uncle, Abu Talib, died. He had protected the Prophet ﷺ from the harsh Quraysh leaders—those who hated Islam and tried to stop its spread. Then Khadijah became ill, and I watched as her strength faded day by day. Still, she never complained. She smiled when her daughters visited. She whispered dhikr—remembrance of Allah—even as her voice became weak.
I remember one afternoon clearly. The Prophet ﷺ came in quietly, sat beside her, and held her hand. He did not speak much. His eyes were full of love and pain. When she closed her eyes to rest, he brushed her hair back gently. Then he looked at me and said softly, “She believed in me when no one else did.”
That moment stayed with me. All around us, people mocked the Prophet ﷺ. They threw stones, called him names, and boycotted his family. But Khadijah—she stood beside him from the very first revelation of the Qur’an. She gave her wealth, her home, her comfort—everything—for the sake of Allah’s message. And now, when her support was needed most, she was about to leave this world.
When she passed away, the house fell silent. Even the wind in Mecca seemed to stop. There was no sound except for the quiet sobbing of her daughters. The Prophet ﷺ carried her to the grave himself. Fatimah, their youngest daughter, held my hand tightly, her face pale with sorrow.
After the burial, I found the Prophet ﷺ alone in the room where Khadijah used to rest. He seemed so still, like a tree in winter. Later, someone told me he called that year “‘Aam al-Huzn”—the Year of Sorrow. Now I understood. He had lost his strongest supporter—not just a wife, but the one who gave him strength when the world turned away.
Watching him walk through grief with patience made me realize something. Even the most beloved people to Allah face trials. Even the Prophet ﷺ was tested with deep loss. But he never accused Allah, never showed anger. He accepted, he wept, and he continued his mission.
That became my lesson. When sorrow visits me, I remember her—Khadijah, the Mother of the Believers—and how her love gave strength to a Prophet. And I whisper, “Alhamdulillah,” even through tears.
Story Note: Inspired by the account of Khadijah bint Khuwaylid’s passing during the “Year of Sorrow,” as recorded in classical seerah (Prophetic biography) traditions, including Ibn Ishaq and Ibn Kathir.
It was the scent of rosewater in the air that told me she was still with us—until it faded.
You won’t find my name in any hadith, but I was a young maid in the house of Khadijah bint Khuwaylid. She was the first wife of Prophet Muhammad ﷺ and the first person to believe in his message. I had come to serve her just a few years before her final illness. When I first arrived, I was nervous. Mecca was not kind to believers, and I didn’t know what it meant to live in the house of the Prophet ﷺ. But Khadijah welcomed me like a daughter. She was kind, calm, and always gave more than she received.
That year was one of sorrow. First, Khadijah’s uncle, Abu Talib, died. He had protected the Prophet ﷺ from the harsh Quraysh leaders—those who hated Islam and tried to stop its spread. Then Khadijah became ill, and I watched as her strength faded day by day. Still, she never complained. She smiled when her daughters visited. She whispered dhikr—remembrance of Allah—even as her voice became weak.
I remember one afternoon clearly. The Prophet ﷺ came in quietly, sat beside her, and held her hand. He did not speak much. His eyes were full of love and pain. When she closed her eyes to rest, he brushed her hair back gently. Then he looked at me and said softly, “She believed in me when no one else did.”
That moment stayed with me. All around us, people mocked the Prophet ﷺ. They threw stones, called him names, and boycotted his family. But Khadijah—she stood beside him from the very first revelation of the Qur’an. She gave her wealth, her home, her comfort—everything—for the sake of Allah’s message. And now, when her support was needed most, she was about to leave this world.
When she passed away, the house fell silent. Even the wind in Mecca seemed to stop. There was no sound except for the quiet sobbing of her daughters. The Prophet ﷺ carried her to the grave himself. Fatimah, their youngest daughter, held my hand tightly, her face pale with sorrow.
After the burial, I found the Prophet ﷺ alone in the room where Khadijah used to rest. He seemed so still, like a tree in winter. Later, someone told me he called that year “‘Aam al-Huzn”—the Year of Sorrow. Now I understood. He had lost his strongest supporter—not just a wife, but the one who gave him strength when the world turned away.
Watching him walk through grief with patience made me realize something. Even the most beloved people to Allah face trials. Even the Prophet ﷺ was tested with deep loss. But he never accused Allah, never showed anger. He accepted, he wept, and he continued his mission.
That became my lesson. When sorrow visits me, I remember her—Khadijah, the Mother of the Believers—and how her love gave strength to a Prophet. And I whisper, “Alhamdulillah,” even through tears.
Story Note: Inspired by the account of Khadijah bint Khuwaylid’s passing during the “Year of Sorrow,” as recorded in classical seerah (Prophetic biography) traditions, including Ibn Ishaq and Ibn Kathir.
