The clouds were thundering but not taking the name of rain as if someone had betrayed the clouds and their tears had dried. The cold was intensifying, pressing against the walls of the house, seeping into its corners, a silent reminder of all that was unsaid. The wind howled fiercely, rattling the windows, creating a sound that resonated with the unspoken anguish in the heart of Hassan-e-Amir's home.
Hassan sat up abruptly, the cries of her little daughter, Farwa, pulling her from the fragile grasp of sleep. She rubbed her tired eyes and looked at the clock on the side table. It was past midnight. The cold seemed to deepen as she stepped out of bed, her feet meeting the icy floor. The dim light of the night lamp barely illuminated the room as she made her way to Farwa's crib.
"What is it, my little one?" she murmured softly, picking up her crying daughter. Her voice, though tender, carried the weariness of countless sleepless nights. Farwa's small face was scrunched in discomfort, her tiny fists flailing. Hassan gently cradled her, pacing the room to soothe her. The rhythmic movement quieted the cries but did little to quiet the storm brewing within Hassan.
Her gaze shifted to the door of the drawing room, left slightly ajar. Through it, she could see the faint glow of the lamp where Rehman Malik, her husband, sat. His back was turned to her, his shoulders hunched over a thick history book. The sight ignited a pang of frustration in her chest.
"How easy it must be," Hassan thought bitterly, her lips tightening, "to detach yourself from the chaos of this house and immerse in books. To leave everything—your crying child, your exhausted wife—and retreat to a world that demands nothing from you."
Farwa stirred in her arms, her cries subsiding into soft whimpers. Hassan kissed her forehead and laid her gently back in the crib. She lingered for a moment, her fingers brushing her daughter's cheek. "I'll handle this," she whispered, though it wasn't clear if she was speaking to her child or herself.
The house fell into an uneasy silence. The only sounds were the occasional crack of the wind against the windows and the turning of pages from the drawing room. Hassan hesitated at the doorway. She wanted to speak to Rehman, to draw him out of his self-imposed isolation, but the sight of his stoic demeanor made her pause.
She leaned against the doorframe, watching him. His face was illuminated by the yellow light, his expression calm and focused. It was a face she had once adored, a face she had trusted to weather life's storms alongside her. Yet tonight, it seemed distant, as if belonging to a stranger.
"Rehman," she said quietly, her voice breaking the stillness.
He didn't respond immediately. She had to call his name again before he turned, his eyes blinking as if pulled from a trance. "What is it, Hassan?" he asked, his tone polite but devoid of warmth.
"Farwa was crying," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
He nodded, his gaze drifting back to his book. "I heard."
Hassan clenched her fists at her sides. "You heard? And that's all? Rehman, she's your daughter too. You could have at least come to see what was wrong."
Rehman sighed, closing his book with deliberate slowness. He looked at her, his expression one of practiced patience. "Hassan, I was studying. You know how important this is for my work."
"And what about your family?" she shot back, her voice rising despite herself. "What about me? I'm here every night, every day, tending to our child, this house, everything! Do you even see what I'm going through?"
For a moment, he said nothing. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Finally, he stood, gathering his book and phone. "I'm not ignoring you, Hassan," he said evenly. "But I can't be everywhere at once. Some things… you have to manage on your own."
The words struck her like a blow. She watched as he walked past her, his footsteps measured, his focus already shifting away from the argument. Hassan's shoulders sagged as she turned back toward the crib. Farwa was sleeping now, her tiny chest rising and falling peacefully.
Hassan sat on the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands. "Manage on my own," she whispered to herself, her voice trembling. "Isn't that what I've been doing all along?"
Her thoughts spiraled as she tried to make sense of it all. Was this the life she had envisioned when she married Rehman? Where had the man who once promised to share her burdens gone? She could still recall his words from years ago, words that had made her believe in a future filled with partnership and understanding. But now, those promises seemed like distant echoes, lost in the cold silence of their home.
The tension between them had been growing for months, but tonight felt different. It wasn't just the distance; it was the indifference. Rehman's casual dismissal of her struggles had pierced her deeply. She stared at the darkened room, her mind racing with questions she didn't know how to ask.
As she sat there, the faint sound of Rehman's phone vibrating broke through the silence. She turned her head, her curiosity piqued. It wasn't unusual for him to receive calls late at night—his work often demanded odd hours. But something about this felt off. The vibration continued, persistent and insistent, as though it carried a message that couldn't wait.
Hassan rose slowly, her bare feet brushing against the cold floor. She stepped quietly toward the doorway, her heart pounding with unease. Peeking into the drawing room, she saw Rehman's phone on the table, its screen glowing faintly in the dim light. He was nowhere in sight.
She hesitated, torn between respecting his privacy and the nagging suspicion that had begun to grow within her. The name on the screen caught her attention: Shahla. The letters seemed to pulse with urgency, drawing her closer.
"Who is Shahla?" she wondered aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. It wasn't a name she recognized. Her hand hovered over the phone, her mind racing. Should she answer it? Confront Rehman? The uncertainty gnawed at her, leaving her rooted in place.
Before she could decide, the vibration stopped. A moment later, Rehman appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable. His eyes flicked to the phone, then to her. "Why are you standing here?" he asked, his tone guarded.
Hassan straightened, masking her unease. "Your phone was ringing," she said, gesturing toward it. "It's late. Who's calling you at this hour?"
Rehman's lips tightened as he crossed the room to pick up the device. "Work," he said shortly, avoiding her gaze. "It's nothing important."
"Nothing important?" Hassan's voice rose slightly, betraying her frustration. "Then why does it seem like you're hiding something? Who is Shahla?"
Rehman's head snapped up at her question, his expression darkening. "You're overthinking," he said, his voice clipped. "She's a colleague. We're working on a project together, and she needed to discuss something."
Hassan crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. "At midnight? Rehman, this doesn't feel right. You've been distant, distracted, and now this. I deserve to know what's going on."
He let out a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. "Hassan, I don't have time for this. You're reading into things that aren't there. Shahla is just a name, just a coworker. That's all."
His words were meant to reassure her, but they had the opposite effect. The vagueness of his explanation only deepened her doubts. She watched as he stepped out into the courtyard, his phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low, almost inaudible, as he spoke.
Hassan remained in the doorway, her mind swirling with unanswered questions. She felt a growing sense of unease, a weight that pressed against her chest. She wanted to believe him, to trust that his words were true. But the cracks in their relationship had become too wide to ignore.
Returning to the bedroom, Hassan sat by the crib, watching Farwa's peaceful slumber. The sight of her daughter brought a fleeting sense of calm, a reminder of the love that still existed in her life. "What am I supposed to do?" she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "How do I fix this? Or am I the only one who cares enough to try?"
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open. Rehman entered, his expression tense. He didn't meet her eyes as he began gathering papers from the desk.
"What are you doing?" Hassan asked, her voice tentative.
"I have to leave tomorrow," he said, his tone flat. "The office needs me out of town for a research project. I'll be gone for ten days."
"Ten days?" The words felt like a blow. "Rehman, we didn't even discuss this. You're just telling me now?"
"I didn't have a choice," he replied, his tone impatient. "The call I just took—it was the director. This isn't optional, Hassan."
She watched him, her heart sinking. His detachment was palpable, a wall that seemed impossible to breach. "And what about us?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Do we even matter to you anymore?"
Rehman paused, his hand hovering over the papers. For a brief moment, his expression softened, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "Of course you matter," he said quietly. "But this is my job. This is what I have to do."
Hassan turned away, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. His words, though well-meaning, felt hollow. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but she knew it would make no difference.
As Rehman continued packing, the house fell silent once more. The storm outside had quieted, leaving behind a cold stillness that seeped into every corner. Hassan sat by the window, staring out at the darkened sky.
"I can't keep living like this," she thought, her hands trembling in her lap. "Something has to change. But what can I do when I'm the only one fighting for this family?"
The first hints of dawn began to creep into the room, painting the walls with a soft gray light. Farwa stirred in her crib, a small sigh escaping her lips. Hassan wiped her damp cheeks and rose to check on her daughter. The sight of the tiny, peaceful face brought a flicker of comfort, but it wasn't enough to quiet the storm brewing within.
The sound of firm, deliberate knocking at the front door startled her. Hassan glanced at the clock—it was barely past six in the morning. She hesitated for a moment, wondering who could be visiting at such an early hour. Pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders, she made her way to the door.
Standing on the doorstep was Fatima Begum, her posture straight and her expression sharp. She wore a crisp, pressed shawl draped over her head, and her eyes held the kind of piercing intensity that made it impossible to avoid her scrutiny. Hassan could feel the weight of Fatima's gaze even before a word was spoken.
"Good morning," Fatima said curtly, stepping into the house without waiting for an invitation. She glanced around the room, her disapproving eyes taking in the unkempt state of the living room. "Still asleep, are we? It's already morning."
Hassan tightened her grip on the edges of her shawl. "I wasn't asleep," she replied quietly. "Farwa was restless all night, and I was just—"
Fatima cut her off with a wave of her hand. "Excuses," she said briskly, setting her handbag down on the table. "You have responsibilities, Hassan. A house doesn't run itself. And where is Rehman? Surely, he's not still in bed."
"He's packing," Hassan answered, her voice faltering slightly. "He has to leave for work today."
"For work?" Fatima repeated, raising an eyebrow. "And he didn't think to inform me of this? I suppose it's easier for him to avoid answering questions."
Hassan said nothing, unsure of how to respond. Fatima's presence always had a way of making her feel small, as though every decision she made was somehow inadequate. She busied herself with tidying the table, trying to avoid the older woman's penetrating stare.
Fatima sat down on the sofa, smoothing out the folds of her shawl. "Hassan, let me ask you something," she said after a moment. Her tone had softened slightly, but there was still an edge to her words. "Do you think you're managing this house the way it should be managed?"
Hassan's hands froze mid-motion. She turned slowly to face Fatima, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I… I'm doing my best," she said hesitantly. "Things have been difficult lately."
"Difficult," Fatima echoed, shaking her head. "Marriage is not meant to be easy, Hassan. It requires strength, discipline, and understanding. Do you think your mother taught you enough of these things?"
The question felt like a slap. Hassan lowered her gaze, her throat tightening. "I'm trying," she whispered. "I really am."
Before Fatima could respond, Rehman entered the room, carrying his packed bag. His expression was neutral, but his eyes flickered with tension as he noticed his mother. "You're here early," he said, setting the bag by the door.
"I wouldn't have to be if you kept me informed," Fatima replied sharply. "Hassan tells me you're leaving for work. Is that true?"
"Yes," Rehman said shortly. "The office needs me for a research project. I'll be gone for about ten days."
Fatima's eyes narrowed. "And what about your wife? Your daughter? Do you think they can manage without you? Or do you assume it's not your concern?"
"I'm doing this for all of us," Rehman replied, his voice calm but firm. "It's part of my job, and it's not optional."
Fatima shook her head in disapproval. "You're too much like your father," she said, her tone tinged with bitterness. "Always putting work first and family second. Don't forget, Rehman, that families don't survive on work alone."
Rehman's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He glanced at Hassan, who stood silently by the table, her eyes fixed on the floor. "I'll call when I arrive," he said, addressing her. "Take care of Farwa."
Hassan nodded mutely, unable to meet his gaze. She felt a lump rising in her throat as she watched him leave the house, his footsteps echoing against the pavement outside. The sound of the door closing behind him felt like the final note of an unresolved symphony, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Fatima rose from the sofa, her movements deliberate. "I'll be back later," she said, her tone brisk. "There's much to be done, and you can't do it all on your own. Remember, Hassan, it's not weakness to ask for help. It's foolishness to refuse it."
Hassan nodded again, her voice caught in her throat. She waited until Fatima had left before sinking into a chair, her hands trembling in her lap. The house felt impossibly quiet, the absence of Rehman's presence both a relief and a weight.
As the morning sunlight streamed through the windows, Hassan resolved to face the day with whatever strength she could muster. She had no choice but to keep going—for herself, for Farwa, and for the fragile hope that things might one day get better.