Rehema woke up the next morning to a new kind of stillness. The house was quiet, and for once, she didn't feel the familiar weight of worry pressing down on her chest. It was a strange feeling, one she hadn't experienced in what felt like forever.
She glanced over at the crib where her son lay, his tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful slumber. Rehema smiled softly, her heart swelling with a love so pure it ached. She had never doubted her role as a mother, but the weight of being a wife—of carrying the responsibility of holding her family together—had become unbearable. And now, as she looked at her son, she realized something she'd never allowed herself to admit before: her son was the reason she had to be strong, but she was the reason she had to be whole.
She rose quietly from the bed and made her way to the kitchen, the sounds of the outside world beginning to filter in as the day broke. The street outside was already alive with people coming and going, their own lives unfolding in ways Rehema couldn't even begin to comprehend. She was so caught up in her own struggles, her own pain, that she had forgotten to look beyond it.
Her phone buzzed on the counter, and she picked it up, her heart beating faster as she saw Rashida's name. She answered quickly, not wanting to waste a second.
"Good morning, my dear." Rashida's voice was warm, comforting.
"Morning, Aunt. I don't know how to explain it, but… it feels different today. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I'm actually breathing."
"That's because you are," Rashida replied. "You're learning to breathe without holding on to the past, without suffocating yourself with someone else's choices."
Rehema leaned against the counter, closing her eyes for a moment. The words hit her hard. It was the truth she had been avoiding—the truth that had kept her in this limbo for so long. She had been suffocating herself, waiting for Ali to change, to fix everything. But nothing would change unless she did.
---
Later that afternoon, Ali came home, his face unreadable. Rehema barely acknowledged him as she continued to clean up the kitchen. She had learned, in the last 24 hours, to keep her focus on herself. Ali was a part of her life, yes, but he was no longer her life.
He stood at the entrance to the kitchen for a long moment, watching her, his gaze heavy with something that felt like guilt but also anger. "You're still upset," he finally said, his voice strained.
Rehema didn't turn to face him. "I'm not upset, Ali. I'm just… I'm just tired."
Ali stepped closer, his voice rising slightly. "Tired? Of me? You've always been there for me, and now you're just going to give up?"
Rehema's grip on the dish in her hand tightened. "I haven't given up on you, Ali. I've given up on pretending that your actions don't hurt. I've given up on pretending I don't feel invisible."
Ali's eyes flickered with a mix of confusion and frustration. "Invisible? You think I don't see you? I know I've made mistakes, but I'm trying to fix them."
"Trying isn't enough anymore," Rehema said, her voice steady but firm. She turned to face him, her eyes meeting his, unflinching. "You've been trying for years, Ali, but I've been waiting for you to do the right thing. Waiting for you to come home, to be the man I married, to be the father our son deserves. But I can't wait anymore. I can't keep putting my life on hold for you to figure it out."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and sharp. Ali looked as though she had slapped him, his face pale, the anger dissipating from his features, replaced by something Rehema couldn't quite place—regret, perhaps. But it was too late for that now. She had crossed a line, and for the first time, it didn't feel like a mistake.
---
Later that evening, Rehema sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. The baby had fallen asleep in the crib, and the house was quiet again, but there was no peace in her mind. She had said it. She had told Ali the truth, but now the silence felt deafening. Had she done the right thing?
Her phone buzzed again. Rashida.
"How did it go?"
Rehema swallowed hard, her throat tight. "He doesn't understand. He doesn't see it. He's still… he's still asking for more chances."
Rashida's voice was soft but firm. "And you don't owe him another chance, Rehema. You owe it to yourself to live a life that's not built around his mistakes."
Rehema closed her eyes, the weight of those words sinking in deeper. She had always been afraid of being alone, afraid of what it would mean to stand on her own without Ali by her side. But now, she realized she was not alone. She had herself. She had her son. And slowly, she was learning that was enough.
---
The next few days passed in a blur. Ali continued to come home late, sometimes not at all, and though Rehema still felt the sting of his neglect, she no longer allowed it to consume her. She threw herself into the work she had started for herself—taking on small projects, making plans for her future. She didn't know what that future would look like, but for the first time, she was beginning to see herself in it.
Each day was a battle, yes, but it was a battle for herself, and she was determined to win.
---
"You are not defined by the people who walk in and out of your life. You are defined by the strength you find within yourself to keep moving forward, even when everything around you falls apart."