The scent of freshly brewed tea filled the small but tidy house as Aisha placed a cup beside her father. He sat in his usual chair by the window, staring into the distance. His once strong and confident frame now seemed frail, weighed down by years of struggle.

"Aisha, come here," he said, his voice weak yet firm. She knelt beside him, her heart tightening at the sight of his tired eyes.

"You've always been my strongest child," he said, placing a trembling hand on her head. "But I fear I have failed you."

"Don't say that, Baba," she whispered, trying to hold back tears.

Her father, a hardworking man, had spent every rupee he earned on his children's futures. His savings had been exhausted by the weddings of Aisha's elder sisters, and now, burdened with debt and illness, he had little left for her. Yet, there was no complaint in his heart—only guilt for not being able to give his daughter the life she deserved.

Aisha had spent her childhood watching her father toil relentlessly. As a subordinate employee at Indian Railways, he worked long hours, often returning home late at night, burdened by responsibilities far greater than his means. When his health began to decline, the fragile stability of their family's finances crumbled. Medical expenses mounted, and his modest pension became their only glimmer of hope in an ever-deepening darkness. With no other choice, Aisha stepped into a role she had never envisioned—one of quiet endurance and unspoken sacrifice.

She had dreamed of working, of building a life of independence, but her father's deteriorating health and the societal pressures around her left little room for such aspirations. And now, the final decision had been made: she was to be married.