I was sixteen that summer we went to Marmaris. The streets were alive with the smell of spices, leather, and the sea breeze drifting in from the harbour. Mum wore a long skirt and a denim jacket, her hair loose, catching the sunlight. People often glanced at her as we walked, though she never seemed to notice

We stepped into a small clothing store where racks of jeans lined the walls. Mum was looking for a pair for her friend, holding up different styles and trying to guess the right size.

That’s when a man stepped out from behind the counter. He looked to be in his forties, tall, with a lean but strong build, and the quiet confidence of someone used to helping customers. His name tag read Jamal.

“Hi, I’m Jamal,” he said with a polite smile. “Can I help you find something?”

Mum smiled back, always polite. “Thanks, Jamal. I’m just looking for jeans for my friend. I don’t know her size exactly, but she’s a little smaller than me, so if it’s a bit tight on me, it should be fine for her.”

Jamal nodded thoughtfully, scanning the racks before pulling out a few options. There was nothing unusual in the conversation, but something about the moment and the way he listened, the focus in his eyes, made it feel like a little scene unfolding in a much bigger day.

Mum eventually found a pair of jeans she really liked and disappeared into the changing room to try them on. I wandered off, idly looking through some shirts. About five minutes later, I heard her call my name.

When I got there, she was half laughing, half frustrated. “They’re stuck,” she whispered. “I think I’ve gone for the wrong size!! I can’t get them past my hips.”

We spent a couple of minutes trying to figure it out, her tugging from inside the cubicle and me trying to offer advice without much success. Just then, Jamal appeared around the corner, noticing the small commotion.

“Madam, do you need any help?” he asked politely, keeping a respectful distance.

Mum shook her head quickly with an embarrassed smile. “No, we’re fine, thanks.”

Jamal gave a short nod and stepped back, but I could tell from his expression he was still amused by the scene as he returned to the counter.

Jamal returned a few minutes later, just as Mum was still struggling with the jeans.

“I told you we’re fine,” Mum said, half-smiling, half irritated.

He paused, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a £50 note.

“Why don’t you go get yourself an iced drink across the road?” he suggested, nodding toward the café.

I hesitated. Mum gave me a sharp look, but I wasn’t really thinking and, before I knew it, I’d taken the money. She called after me, but I was already heading out. The café was busy, and it took me about ten minutes to get back.

When I returned, I went upstairs and saw Jamal walking away from the changing rooms. As I got closer, I noticed mum standing by the mirror, she was picking up her white knickers from the floor, I watched for another minute before walking over  and she was adjusting her skirt and picking up her shopping bag.

When I went there she took my arm firmly. “I told you not to go,” she said under her breath.

At the counter, she asked, “How much do I owe?”

Jamal smiled faintly. “Nothing.”

We stepped out into the street. I glanced at her. “What happened?”

“Don’t ask,” she said flatly. “And don’t mention any of this to your father.”

The rest of the walk home was silent, but my head was full of questions I wasn’t sure I wanted answered.