[ WP ] An ancient , magical heirloom is passed down through your family every generation to the firstborn son . After 13 daughters , your father has finally given up and is holding a competition to see which one of his children will inherit it .

Thirteen is a very unlucky number, their father told them early and often. Why had n't they stopped at twelve? 
 
 Twelve was a good number, their mother thought. Twelve dancing princesses. Seven was a good number as well. She had six sisters herself, so seven and seven would have been lovely and symmetrical. 
 
 Or three, their father would say. Three girls. Well, that would have suited them. It would have been a nice number, he thinks often. Thirteen is just too many. 
 
 Of course, it could have been far worse. Each daughter was more beautiful than the last, with the exception of the very last and youngest, who was plain where her sisters were pretty, and rather threw off the symmetry of the entire thing. Privately their father believed he would have been content, even with girls, had they been twelve or fourteen strong, but thirteen was an - an - an aberration. 
 
 That's a very strong word to be throwing around before breakfast, his wife had chided him the last time he had expressed this view, and their father had learnt not to say so in front of the girls. 
 
 Yasmin and Nasreen, Dorani and Layla, Bhasi and Sophie, Ghadira and Maryam, Fatima and Zahara, Isra and Khadisha, and last and certainly least, Akhara. 
 
 But the fact remains that they are thirteen daughters and the heirloom must be passed on, so that's what their father does. One Friday, as the sun is setting and the muezzin's call has folded back on itself, bloated with echoing, he takes from within the walls if their apartment a silver box, large enough to hold a pair of shoes, and he sets it in the kitchen table before he goes to prayers. This gives the girls an opportunity to crowd and wonder, but their mother steers them clear of interfering with it until their father returns. 
 
 When he does, he takes the box and he holds it and he looks at the girls and he says, one of you will receive this but who? 
 
 And Yasmin is the oldest and she should get any sort of heirloom, or at least first refusal, so she says so. 
 
 Their father nods and considers this and concedes that this is fair, yes. 
 
 And Nasreen is the first and only married daughter, which makes her husband their father's only son, and if he needs a male heir to inherit he has one, so she says so. 
 
 Their father nods and considers this and concedes that this is fair, yes. 
 
 And Dorani is the scholar of the family; clever and witty, with poetry and figures dripping from her tongue in equal measure. If any girl will make something of herself, she will, so she says so. 
 
 Their father nods and considers this and concedes that this is fair, yes. 
 
 And Layla is the hardest working of them all; she has been working in the bazaar with her grandmother since she was old enough to understand currency and had given every penny she has earned to support and strengthen this family, so she says so. 
 
 Their father nods and considers this and concedes that this is fair, yes. 
 
 And Bhasi is the most talented of the family, a prodigy who had worn out all the shoes she has ever worn with the intricate steps of dance and she drinks applause and devours attention, and if anyone deserves a thing of beauty it is she who has brought so much of it to the world, so she says so. 
 
 Their father nods and considers this and concedes that this is fair, yes. 
 
 And Sophie is the only one in the family who stills holds the magic with which they wrought the heirloom, the only daughter to have sat by the fire with their grandfather as he ailed and learned his knowledge to pass on, so she says so. 
 
 Their father nods and considers this and concedes that this is fair, yes. 
 
 And so it goes with the others, who each have their reasons to demand the heirloom: Ghadira and Maryam, Fatima and Zahara, Isra and Khadisha, and last and certainly least, Akhara. 
 
 And when it comes to last and certainly least, Akhara, she says, I do not want it. I do not deserve it. 
 
 And their father smiles, and he says, then who does? Tell me, Akhara, who is plain when others are pretty, who is unsymmetrical and without pair, who is undeserving and undesiring. Who deserves it? 
 
 She says, I ca n't tell you if I do n't know what it is. 
 
 He calls her to the table and he steps forward and she inclined her head forward to look as he slips the lid from the silver box, just a sliver, enough that she may gaze inside. She nods, and she has to smile, and her sisters look as though they might burn up with jealousy as Akhara looks thoughtful. 
 
 Give it to Yasmin, she says, she is the oldest, and her father does as she says, and Yasmin smiles as she takes it, her face aglow with a light that fades the longer she gazes upon the silver box. 
 
 No, Yasmin says, give it to Nasreen; she is newly married and needs the support, and she passes it to her sister, and Nasreen beams as she takes it with the expression of one who has seen the stars for the first time, fading as she looks at the heirloom. 
 
 No, Nasreen says, give it to Dorani; she is the cleverest of us all, and she passes it to Dorani, who says no, give it Layla, who is hard working and never complains, who says give it to Bhasi, she is talented and artful, who says give to Sophie, who holds all the universe within her capable grasp, who says give it to Ghadira, who is the kindest person I have ever met, who gives it to Maryam, who is as beautiful as the night sky. 
 
 And beautiful Maryam gives it to loyal Fatima and loyal Fatima gives to humble Zahara, who gives it to athletic Isra who gives it to elegant Khadisha, who gives it to, last and certainly least, the undeserving, undesiring, plain-not-pretty, unsymmetrical Akhara. 
 
 Why, thank you, Akhara says. She takes the heirloom, and she leaves.
