The Brothers and the Last Mango

The mango tree in the Ahmeds' courtyard was famous in the whole lane. Every June it gave the sweetest, goldenest mangoes, and the whole family waited for them like a festival. This year, the harvest had been thin, and by the last week of June only one mango remained, hanging low and heavy, glowing in the evening light. ''That one is mine,'' announced Bilal, thirteen, the moment he spotted it. ''I found it first.'' ''No way!'' shouted Hamza, nine, planting himself beneath the branch. ''I have been watching it for three days!'' Their voices rose and rose until their mother stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron. ''Enough,'' she said calmly. ''You two decide together, or I will give it to your father.'' The boys fell silent. Their father was known for eating anything given to him in exactly two bites.

A Clever Plan

Bilal crossed his arms. ''We could cut it in half.'' ''Half is not fair,'' said Hamza, ''because you are bigger and you will take the bigger half.'' ''I will cut and you choose,'' said Bilal, remembering the old trick. Hamza thought hard. ''No. You will cut it crooked on purpose.'' ''I would not—'' ''You would too.'' They glared at each other until their grandmother's soft voice came from her rocking chair in the corner. ''In my village,'' she said, without looking up from her knitting, ''we had a saying: the fruit shared in love never tastes small.'' The boys looked at her, then at each other, and both felt a little ashamed. Bilal remembered last year, when they had fought over the last glass of lassi and their father had simply drunk it himself, laughing. ''That was worse,'' Bilal muttered, and Hamza giggled despite himself.

That night, at dinner, their mother placed the mango on a plate in the center of the table. Bilal picked up the knife, cut it carefully into two perfectly equal halves, and pushed the plate toward Hamza. ''You pick first.'' Hamza hesitated, then took the smaller-looking half and gave Bilal a crooked grin. ''Mine.'' They ate in silence. The mango was soft and honey-sweet, the juice running down their chins, and both of them thought, privately, that it was the best mango of the whole summer.

The Empty Plate

When they finished, Hamza licked his fingers and said, very quietly, ''Bilal… next year, if there is only one again, you can have it.'' Bilal ruffled his little brother's hair, which was still sticky. ''No,'' he said. ''Next year we share again. It tastes better that way.'' Their grandmother smiled into her tea. Some lessons, she thought, you don't teach with words at all.

Moral of the Story

Sharing something you love with someone you love makes the joy twice as big. The sweetest things in life are the ones we enjoy together.