The days blurred together in a quiet, weary rhythm. Rehema woke early, often before the baby, and spent the first few moments of her day alone in the dim light of the early morning. She used this time to breathe, to remind herself that she was still here, still standing, despite the weight of everything that had happened.
Ali's presence in the house was fleeting. He came and went with little explanation, often disappearing for days at a time, leaving Rehema in silence with the baby. He didn't seem to care much about the state of their home, about her, or even about the child he had brought into the world. It hurt her, but she had learned to mask that pain behind a facade of indifference. The more she closed herself off, the less it seemed to hurt.
But in the quiet moments, when the house was still and the baby slept soundly in her arms, Rehema had time to think. And in those quiet moments, she began to think about something she hadn't allowed herself to think in a long time: herself.
---
The morning had started like any other. The baby, now almost three months old, was cooing in his crib. Rehema sat on the edge of her bed, watching him. She should have felt joy, pride, or something else. But instead, there was a strange emptiness, a hollow feeling inside her chest. It wasn't the baby's fault; he was just a child, innocent and unaware of the emotional storm brewing around him. The storm, however, was very real to Rehema.
She stood up slowly, her legs a little weak from the exhaustion that never seemed to end. She walked to the kitchen, where the smell of old coffee still lingered. Ali had left without a word again this morning. The house was still untouched by any real care. She knew she needed to clean, but she couldn't bring herself to do it today.
Instead, Rehema did what she hadn't done in a long time. She sat down at the small table, took a deep breath, and opened her phone.
The screen blinked to life, and there, in the messages, was a note from Rashida.
"How are you doing, my love?"
Rehema's heart softened at the sight of her aunt's name. Rashida was the one person who always made her feel seen, who reminded her that she wasn't alone.
She typed quickly, her fingers moving almost automatically:
"I'm trying. I feel lost, Aunt. I don't know who I am anymore."
The reply came almost instantly. "It's okay to feel lost. You are not defined by your marriage or the choices of anyone else. You have a life beyond this, beyond him."
Rehema read the message, the words sinking deep into her heart.
Beyond him.
The thought was both terrifying and liberating. She had always been defined by Ali's actions, his moods, and the chaos he brought into their home. She had spent so many years trying to be the perfect wife, the perfect partner, trying to fix things that were never really hers to fix.
Maybe it was time to start focusing on what she could fix—the only thing she truly had control over: herself.
---
That afternoon, Rehema made a decision. It wasn't something she had come to lightly. It wasn't a decision that would solve all her problems, or even make the pain go away, but it was a beginning.
She walked to the small desk in the corner of their bedroom and pulled out a notebook. It had sat unused for months, forgotten under a pile of bills and papers. Today, she would use it. She would take the first step toward rediscovering who she was—independent of Ali, independent of the hurt and neglect she had been carrying for so long.
She opened to the first page and wrote:
"I will build something for myself. I will stop waiting for him to change."
It wasn't easy to admit that to herself. For so long, she had hoped, prayed, and begged for change. But the truth was, change had to come from within her, not from Ali.
---
The next few days were filled with small moments of clarity. Rehema went through the motions—feeding the baby, cleaning the house, trying to stay on top of the everyday tasks that demanded her attention—but she also began to carve out time for herself. It started with simple things, like taking a walk around the block or listening to her favorite music while she cleaned.
She began to reconnect with the parts of herself she had lost over the years—the things she loved, the things that made her feel alive.
Ali came home late one evening, as usual, his steps heavy and careless as he dropped his coat on the couch without a word. Rehema, who had been sitting at the kitchen table, didn't even flinch at his presence. She had learned to distance herself from his behavior, to stop letting it control her emotions.
He glanced over at her, his eyes narrowing. "You're still here?"
Rehema looked up from the page she had been writing in her journal, the words she had been reflecting on frozen in her mind. "I'm still here."
Ali scoffed, rolling his eyes. "You're acting like you don't care anymore."
"I don't," she said quietly, her voice steady. "I don't care the way I used to. I can't. I need to care about me now."
---
It wasn't an easy journey. There were still moments when the weight of Ali's disregard hurt more than she was ready to admit. There were nights when she cried quietly in the dark, clutching her baby close, wondering if it would ever get better. But each day, she found a small piece of herself again. She began to rebuild—not for Ali, not for anyone else, but for her.
---
"The most powerful thing you can do for yourself is to stop waiting for others to change and start changing yourself. Growth begins within, and you are worth the effort."