rival she could never conquer, while his two sons were
daily reproof of her own inability to produce an heir.
She, Aisha, was supposed to be the apple of
Muhammad’s eye, not these two adored grandsons in
whom the Prophet seemed to take even more delight
than he did in her, and certainly not the drab, modest
Fatima, their mother, or the superior Ali, their father,
who accorded her none of the deference and respect she
was convinced she should command.
That rebuke of Muhammad’s for her criticism of
Khadija had hit Aisha hard, and since she was not the
forgiving type, let alone the forgetting one, the impact of
the blow did not lessen with time. If anything, it
increased. Banned from any further criticism of Khadija,
and unable to compete on the most basic yet most
important level—the continuation of the bloodline—she
displaced her resentment onto the one person who
seemed safe, Khadija’s eldest daughter.
Fatima had none of the robust health and vitality of
Aisha. Fifteen years older, she was frail by comparison,
almost sickly. She could not make her father laugh with
paternal aʃection as Aisha did, could not tease him,
could barely even gain his ear unless it was to do with
her sons. Her place had been taken by Aisha, who
eʃectively set about shutting her out. More daughter
than wife, Aisha saw herself as competing with Fatima