Chapter 1
The house was quiet that afternoon, until a sudden voice echoed through the walls. “Mother! I got the scholarship!”
Her words were filled with so much excitement that they almost trembled in the air. She ran into the small living room where her mother was sitting, breathless, her eyes sparkling like never before.
Her mother looked up, stunned. “What… what did you just say?”
The girl’s smile widened, her cheeks glowing. “Mama, I got it! I really got it. They accepted me. My dream… it’s happening!”
For a moment, her mother just stared, as if she couldn’t believe the words. Then slowly, her eyes filled with tears—tears that carried years of prayers, sleepless nights, and unspoken sacrifices. She reached out, pulling her daughter into a tight embrace.
“My daughter… my little girl…” her mother whispered, her voice breaking. “Allah listened. You made it.”
The girl clung to her mother, her heart beating fast with joy. “Mama, after one month, my flight is scheduled. I want to pack everything properly. And… will you come to the market with me tomorrow? I want to buy cloth, new ones for myself. For the first time, Mama, I want to choose without fear, without holding back.”
Her mother smiled through her tears, brushing her daughter’s hair lovingly. “Yes, my daughter. We’ll go. You’ll take a piece of home with you, wherever you go.”
In that little moment, the room that once carried silence was filled with dreams, hope, and the warmth of a mother’s love.
The laughter and tears of joy still lingered in the room when the front door slammed open with a violent thud. Heavy footsteps stormed inside, shaking the fragile peace.
It was her father. His face was twisted, his veins bulging with rage, eyes bloodshot as if every breath was poison.
His voice erupted like thunder.
“May you all die! Every single one of you is nothing but a curse on my life!”
The mother froze, tightening her hold on her daughter as if to shield her from his venom. The younger son, only sixteen, stood in the corner, his hands trembling.
The father’s eyes darted to him, filled with disgust. “And you! Useless piece of filth. Sixteen years and not a single thing to show for it. You eat, you breathe, but you give nothing back. A leech—that’s what you are!”
He spat on the ground, his voice growing more vicious.
“I thought I married an educated woman, a woman who would give me pride, strong sons, a family to respect me. But what did I get? Weaklings. Shits who are nothing but burdens rotting my back!”
His words were knives, cutting deeper than any wound. The daughter, who moments ago dreamed of the skies, now stood silent, her smile shattered, while her mother’s tears of joy turned into silent sobs of helplessness.
The father’s voice rose again, brutal and merciless:
“Mark my words—if you all vanished tomorrow, not a soul would care. This house would breathe easier without you!”
The girl took a deep breath, forcing a smile as she walked toward her father. Her voice came out soft, almost pleading, “Baba… I got the scholarship.”
Her father looked at her, his mood still heavy, his face stern. “Scholarship? What scholarship?” he said flatly, not even pretending interest.
With hope flickering in her eyes, she explained, “Baba, after a month, I’ll fly. They accepted me. They will teach me there.”
His brows furrowed. “Leave that. Study here in this city. What’s the need to go there?”
She quickly added, her voice bright with excitement, “But Baba, they will also give me a monthly stipend. And they’ll provide my passport too.”
Suddenly, his eyes widened, his face lighting up—not with pride, but with greed. “Monthly stipend? How much?”
Her smile faltered. For a moment, she had imagined his face glowing with fatherly joy, proud of her achievement. But now she realized—it wasn’t her dream that moved him, only the money.
Lowering her gaze, she whispered, “It will be enough for me… and I will try not to overuse it. I will even send a little to you.”
His voice grew harsh again, dripping with selfishness. “They’ll provide food too, won’t they? And cover travel expenses? Then what’s the need for you to keep that stipend? You should send it all to me. Can’t you see? I am old. I can’t work anymore. And you children—so selfish!”
Her throat tightened. She swallowed hard, forcing courage into her voice. “Baba… food is not the only need. Girls have other needs too.”
He sneered, his lips curling in contempt. “Needs? Or just —your useless whims?”
His words fell heavy in the air, turning her triumph into ashes.
She swallowed hard, her eyes glistening but her voice steady. “Baba… I will do a part-time job there. I’ll send the money to you, because it’s not possible to live without some for myself there.”
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a slow, twisted smile crept onto his face. He leaned back slightly, his voice almost satisfied now.
“Yeah… that would be good,” he said, nodding to himself. “Finally, we will be in peace.”
His words struck her like a slap. Not proud of you, not take care of yourself, not even I’ll miss you. Just peace, because she would be far away and sending money.
She felt her heart sink, but she forced a faint smile, hiding the storm inside her. Her hands trembled slightly as she held them together. She wanted to scream, to cry, but instead she whispered to herself, at least one of us will be free.
Her mother, standing silently behind her, caught her daughter’s eyes. There was no need for words—both of them understood the weight of that “peace” her father spoke of.
The words hit like a stone.
“Are you going on a fashion show or to study?” he barked, eyes full of contempt. “Wear the same clothes there that you’re wearing here. Do you know how much debt I took just to run this house? And now you’re asking money for a pant and a shirt? Finally getting free, huh—thinking you’ll eat and wear everything over there? I’ll send you to the graveyard!”
He spat the last words as if they were a curse. Then, with a voice that cut like glass, he added, “That’s why when you were born I was crying in the hospital—I knew the shame you’d bring me.”
Her mother moved between them like a thin shield. She put a trembling hand on his arm. “Please Hassan… calm down. Have lunch” she begged, voice low and pleading.
But he shoved her away with a sneer. “I don’t want your food,” he said, and without another look he stormed out, the door slamming behind him like the finality of a verdict.
Silence fell heavy. The daughter’s breath came in small, stunned gasps. Her cheeks burned—not from shame this time, but from anger and humiliation braided together. Her hands clenched until her nails left crescent moons in her palms.
Her mother sank onto a low stool and began to weep softly, the weeping of someone who has learned to swallow pain for the sake of the house. The daughter moved to her, kneeling down and taking her mother’s face in both hands. “Mama,” she whispered, voice shaking but firm, “don’t listen to him. I need just a little money for cloth—something decent to wear there. I’ll work part-time. I’ll send money to you.”
Her mother’s eyes were wet but clear. For a moment she looked like the woman she had been before the years of struggle—brave, gentle, dangerous in her love. She reached to the back of the cupboard and, with fingers that trembled more from hope than age, pulled out a small folded bundle of notes. Not much—just a little stash she had kept from odd jobs—but it was enough to buy a few yards of cloth. She pressed it into her daughter’s palm. “Take it, Inaya. Buy what you must. Go and make that life.”
The daughter stared, stunned, then bowed her head and kissed her mother’s forehead. Her throat squeezed with gratitude and something fiercer: a promise to herself not to let this home be only a place of sorrow.
They sat together in the dim room, planning in low voices—how they would go to the market tomorrow, which color to choose, how she would pack. Outside, the street noises continued unaware. Inside, between the broken laughter and the father’s last cruel words, a small, stubborn flame of hope began to burn—quiet, private, impossibly bright.
Hassan came to a grocery shop to buy some split chickpeas. But the shopkeeper was already closing. Hassan asked, “Why are you shutting down so early?”
The shopkeeper replied, “It’s time for Friday prayer. I have to go to the mosque.”
Hassan insisted, “First give me a quarter kg of split chickpeas.”
The shopkeeper said, “Come with me for prayer, then you can take it afterward. I can’t stay now—I’ll be late.”
Hassan scoffed, “You worship Allah, but He doesn’t need your worship. He already has countless angels with Him.”
The shopkeeper stared at him, shocked. “Hassan sahib, have you lost your mind? Move aside and let me go.” He locked the shop and hurried away.
Hassan cursed under his breath "Motherfucker!" and walked off angrily, the bag in his hand still empty.
The heavy oak door creaked as it opened, and Edward stepped inside, his hair disheveled, his shirt collar loose from the night’s chaos. His eyes were red—not from tears, but from the poison he had willingly consumed.
Ahmad stood in the center of the drawing room, waiting. His face was pale with fury, his hands trembling not from age, but from a rage that threatened to spill over. The newspaper still lay on the table—the headlines announcing his son’s arrest for consuming illegal substances.
Before Edward could utter a word, Ahmad’s hand cracked across his face. The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot. Edward’s head snapped to the side, but he didn’t flinch; he almost smirked.
“When will you grow up?” Ahmad’s voice shook with both authority and despair. “When will you understand that what you are doing is wrong? Do you feel no shame at all, Edward? None?”
Edward turned his face back slowly, a faint trace of defiance lingering on his lips. He met his father’s burning eyes and answered shamelessly, his voice low but cutting:
“I do it because it’s wrong.”
Ahmad’s breath caught. For a moment, his fury gave way to something darker—fear. His son wasn’t lost in ignorance. He was choosing the abyss, stepping into it willingly, proudly.
“Because it’s wrong…” Ahmad repeated, his voice breaking as if the words themselves stabbed his chest. He staggered back a step, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself. “You are my shame, Edward. My curse.”
But Edward only tilted his head, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, as though his father’s rage was the very fuel that kept his rebellion alive.
