If someone says that life simply goes on after someone leaves, they are lying. It doesn't "go on" the way it was before. It just becomes a different, quieter, and more difficult life.
For Zainab, after Aqil left, her world changed completely. It was a painful transformation. She felt like a fish that had been thrown onto the dry, hot sand. Every moment was spent thinking of the familiar ocean she had lost—the ocean that was her friendship with Aqil. She was gasping, desperate to go back to how things were, but the tide had pulled him away, leaving her alone.
Nothing felt the same. The simple joys that used to light up her day—a funny text, a shared joke in the canteen, someone saving her a seat—were all gone. It felt like all the happiness had been drained from her world.
There was no one to understand the silent battles she fought at home. No one who could read her mood just by looking at her eyes.
Many times, she picked up her phone, thinking to call him but then she remembered the last time they spoke — how cold and rude her words had been. Every time that memory hit, she'd put her phone away.
Sometimes, she would whisper to herself, "Was it really necessary for him to leave? Couldn't he just wait two or three days, let me calm down, and then talk to me?"
If he had come back once, just once, she would've forgotten everything. She would've listened. She would've forgiven. But he didn't wait. He vanished, and in doing so, he made her angry words final.
The distance grew in other parts of her life, too. Her bond with her Ibi. He came home late now — most nights just to sleep. Work with Samir had taken most of his time. He was training Samir to understand how their business worked, and Zainab could see how serious he had become. The feeling of being his most important person—it was all fading. A silent gap had opened up between the siblings, and neither knew how to cross it.
Nayla and Yusuf still met her, still talked, but the energy wasn't there. Sometimes, by accident, they mentioned Aqil's name — and then fell silent, realizing their mistake. The awkward pause after that hurt more than the mention itself. Zainab could feel their discomfort, so she started keeping her distance on her own.
She knew Yusuf and Aqil still talked; she could see it in the way Yusuf avoided her eyes when his phone buzzed. But she never asked about Aqil. She didn't want to know how he was doing, whether he was happy or not. Because deep down, she feared the answer. If Aqil was hurt, she would blame herself. And if he was fine—smiling, living easily without her—that would hurt even more.
On the other hand, Ibrahim had started to take therapy. Though no one knew about it—neither his mother nor his siblings. What's the point of announcing to the whole house that he's sitting in a room confessing his sins to a woman who calls herself a therapist? he had joked once. It was Amir who had dragged him to the therapist in the first place. After months of resistance, arguments, and half-hearted appointments, Ibrahim finally stopped fighting it.
And maybe, Amir was right.
It had been five months now since Ibrahim first walked into Dr. Fahima's cabin — a calm room with white walls, potted plants, and the faint scent of jasmine tea. A bookshelf stretched behind her desk, filled with psychology journals and children's drawings—gifts from her three kids.
There was also a sofa near the window, but Ibrahim preferred the medical recliner bed placed diagonally across her desk. That was his "spot." Fahima used to tell him it wasn't meant for lying down during sessions, but he'd just smirk and say, "If I'm going to talk about my head, at least let the rest of my body rest."
Today too, Ibrahim lay stretched on the recliner, boots carelessly kicked off to the floor. He had his eyes closed, arms crossed behind his head.
"So, Ibrahim," Fahima began in her warm, professional tone, "any new changes in your life since our last session?"
Ibrahim exhaled, "Yeah… I guess. No more night terrors. I don't see my stepmother in my sleep anymore. I sleep like a normal human being these days."
"That's good progress. See? Five months of consistency is paying off."
"Or maybe your lectures are finally boring enough to knock me out."
Fahima's smile faded, and she set her pen down with a quiet sigh. "You are, without question, the most exhausting patient I've ever had. You don't take anything seriously! I tell you to journal your thoughts—you send me a list of your enemies instead. I suggest deep breathing—you claim the only deep thing in your life is the ocean where you dumped a man last year. And don't even get me started on your idea of 'relaxation'—because apparently that involves gun polishing and smoking. Even my six-year-old listens better than you."
"Well, your six-year-old doesn't run a crime empire," Ibrahim muttered, smirking.
She replied dryly, jotting something in her notepad. "So, apart from your ego, what else has improved? And you mentioned Zainab last time. How is the dynamic now?"
"I let her be. She wanted to go to a university mixer last week. A year ago, I would have had two men tailing her car. This time, I just asked what time she'd be home and transferred money to her account. She looked at me like I'd grown a second head." Ibrahim opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. "My mistake was thinking a cage was a form of protection. I was so terrified of her getting hurt that I became the source of her pain. I was protecting my own fear, not her."
"That's a powerful insight to recognize that overprotection is often about controlling our own anxiety, not about the other person's safety. And how does that feel? To step back?"
"It feels like I'm standing on a cliff's edge without a rope. But… the sky is clear. I think I'm happy. Or, at least, I'm not constantly waiting for disaster."
Fahima's eyes fell on Ibrahim's boots.
It was a small habit of hers—observing the little things about her patients. She often said, "People leave their minds everywhere—on their shoes, in their tone, in how they sit."
For her, a patient's personal effects were often more truthful than their words. A usually pristine wallet filled with crumpled receipts could signal disorganization and stress. A forgotten wedding ring on a day of marriage counseling spoke volumes. Chewed pens hinted at anxiety; an overly organized handbag could point to a need for rigid control.
Therapists often used such cues to cross-check the verbal narrative. Fahima called it "the unspoken report." When someone said "I'm fine," but their body or their belongings said otherwise — she knew which side of the story was real. It was her quiet way of connecting the dots between the seen and the unseen.
Ibrahim's boots weren't clean today. A faint layer of dry mud clung to the edges, and the laces were uneven, as if tied in a hurry. It wasn't normal, not for him.
"Did you come from your residence, or has your night been spent elsewhere?"
Without opening his eyes, he muttered, "Do you expect me to come from space like an alien?"
"Your boots are dirty. That's unlike you. Either your house staff didn't clean them, or…" she paused, "…you didn't go home last night. You've mentioned before that you usually stay in hotels whenever your sleep is disturbed. Particularly after those nightmares about your stepmother. So if you're avoiding home again, I need to know what's triggering it. It might be a sign that your anxiety or insomnia is resurfacing."
Then she added with a light smile, "Unless, of course, this sudden change involves a woman — in that case, I should remind you, you're emotionally not in a position to date anyone yet. Your mind is still in recovery."
"Relax, Doc. It's about men."
Fahima's eyebrows lifted a millimeter. Oh. Not a woman. A man!! He might not be straight. Well, that's perfectly fine. She kept her face neutral, "I see. That's—"
Before she could say anything, Ibrahim sat up with a quiet stretch, "It's about men, yeah… Two men, actually."
Fahima's pen paused above her notebook.
"Alright… Do you want to talk about them?"
Ibrahim's hair fell a little over his forehead as he tilted his head, that crooked smile touching the corner of his lips, "Oh, Doctor. You know I don't bring work files into your office."
He tapped his fingers together, pretending to think.
"But since you're curious.... Two men decided to test me yesterday. They broke a rule. A big one. And accidents happen when people forget who I am. One slipped," he continued casually, as if narrating the weather. "From a second-floor balcony. Very tragic. The railing must be weak these days."
He shrugged, pretending innocence.
"And the other… well, the traffic is terrible, Doctor. People get lost in it. Sometimes permanently. And because I'm already two down this week. I really hope..... you're not planning to do anything foolish."
His gaze held hers, unblinking, "I'd hate to make you the third one."
Fahima kept her arms relaxed, even as her heart gave one single thump against her ribs. This wasn't the first time Ibrahim had tested the boundaries with a threat; it was part of their dynamic, his way of ensuring the unspoken rules of their arrangement were clear. She was the keeper of his secrets, and he reminded her, periodically, of the consequences of betrayal, "You are well aware that my role is to observe. To analyze the data you present, both verbally and non-verbally. It is the fundamental basis of our work here. Your boots, your posture, your word choices—they are all part of the clinical picture. I am not a detective building a legal case; I am a clinician building an understanding of your internal state. That is the only 'digging' I do."
A flash of genuine irritation crossed Ibrahim's face. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, "Then understand this, Doctor. I don't like being… decoded. You are well aware of the nature of my profession. You know the kind of decisions I have to make to keep my world in order. So, don't play the detective with the small things. You get what I choose to give you. Your job is to listen to the words I share, not to investigate the dirt I might bring in. Are we clear?"
Fahima gave a single, professional nod. "We're clear. Now, for our next appointment, I have availability on—"
"I have a different question," Ibrahim interrupted. He had slipped on his boots and walked to her desk, retrieving $1000 from his wallet and tucking it neatly beneath her brass pen holder, "How do you manage it... when your children have a… disagreement? When tensions rise between them?"
She leaned back, giving his question the space it required, "You're asking about two different scenarios. Are you referring to the daily friction, the heated moments of clashing wills? Or are you asking about how I respond when I discover one of them has made a poor choice or a genuine misstep?"
"Both."
"Alright," Fahima began, folding her hands on the desk. "For the first—the daily clashes. My initial strategy is to listen. I allow the frustration to pass. I need to hear the core of the issue—is it about a toy, a injustice, or a need for attention? Often, it's not about declaring a right or wrong, but about starting conversation between them. My husband and I act as mediators, not judges. We help them find their own resolution. Now, for the more serious matter—when they cross a line. Let me tell you about my eldest, Tom. He's ten. Recently, his teacher contacted me. Tom cheated on his exam last month. I went to the school, and in the meeting with the principal, I reacted as I felt a parent should. I scolded him in front of the teachers. Told him cheating is wrong. That this is unacceptable."
She sighed.
But when we came home… Tom didn't feel guilty about cheating. He felt hurt that I scolded him in front of others. He said, 'Why did you embarrass me? Why did you shout at me like that?' His shame wasn't from the mistake he made… it was from the punishment. And then I realised something important. When I was ten, I never cheated. Not because I was morally perfect — no, because my parents had zero expectations. They didn't push me. They didn't demand ranks or medals. I used to play all day. Half my worksheets were blank."
She laughed genuinely. "I never cheated… because I had nothing to cheat for. When I grew up, understanding came naturally — that if I wanted to earn, to live well, I had to study. But Tom… Tom cheated because I put pressure on him. I wanted him to achieve everything I couldn't. I wanted him to be great. Better. Faster. Smarter. And parents don't realise it, but that's how we dig our own graves. My expectations created his fear of failure. If I didn't push so hard… maybe he wouldn't have cheated. That day, Tom didn't talk to me for two days. He stayed in his room. And in those two days, it wasn't me who held him together — it was my husband. He stayed silent. He fed him, played with him, waited for him to open up. In every family… at least one person must stay silent during moments of correction. If both parents attack the child… the child runs away emotionally. They shut down. They stop trusting. We have to stand beside your kids — even when they are wrong — and teach them slowly. Patiently. No one learns to walk the first day. No one grows perfectly. And this generation… they're fragile, easily influenced. If parents don't understand them, the world will take them away. A child who feels alone will seek understanding elsewhere, and that can lead them down a path we cannot follow. Our role is to stand with them, even in their failure. We don't endorse the misstep, but we never abandon the child."
Ibrahim nodded slowly, "That was… good. Day after tomorrow is Zainab's birthday. She's turning eighteen. You're invited. Bring your husband. And your chaos-creating kids."
"That's kind of you, Ibrahim. I'd love to come." Fahima watched him leave.
Walking toward his car, Ibrahim finally switched on his phone — it had been off during the session. Instantly, the screen filled with notifications: 17 missed calls from Aliya, along with several urgent messages telling him to come home immediately. Ibrahim frowned. What could have happened so suddenly to cause such panic? Without further delay, he started his car and quickly made his way home.
Meanwhile, in the master bedroom of Rahman Mansion, Aliya sat cross-legged on the bed, a notepad in her hand. Samir was beside her. They were deep in discussion for Zainab's birthday party.
This year, Zainab had chosen Malacca for her celebration — a seaside resort she loved since childhood. Every birthday, she picked the place herself, and the family followed without question. The guest list was always small and intimate — Zainab's close friends and their relatives, a few trusted friends of Ibrahim who already knew about her.
Samir's own circle wasn't invited; none of his friends knew he even had a younger sister, "You know, Mom. I sometimes dream of giving Zainab a party right here, in our home. Just like how mine and Ibrahim's birthdays used to be when we were young… big decorations, the whole house lit up. She deserves that. She deserves to feel like a princess in her own home."
Aliya gently patted his hand, "I know that dream. I have it too. But life doesn't always give us what we want. We have to accept the reality we live in and find ways to be happy within it. We must protect what is most precious, even if it means sacrificing our dreams."
Samir nodded painfully. Some things simply could not be changed, no matter how much they wished, "Mom… will you attend her birthday this time? You didn't go for the last two years."
"Samir. If the three of us—you, Ibrahim, and I—are seen together at a young girl's birthday, what will people think? What questions will they ask? The media, those paparazzi, they are always watching, always hungry for a story. You and Ibrahim attend many events, so if you two go together, they will think it's just another party of a close friend. But if I attend too… they will start digging. They will ask who Zainab is, how we know her, why we are all present together. I have spent eighteen years protecting Zainab's privacy. Not a single article, not one photograph, not one rumour about her. That took careful planning, so much effort… and a lot of sacrifice. I can't destroy my efforts, son."
Their conversation stopped suddenly when someone knocked on the door. Before Aliya could even answer, the door cracked open. It was one of the housemaids. She stood nervously in the doorway, "Ma'am. I am so sorry to interrupt, but... can you please come outside? It is very important."
Aliya felt a flicker of irritation and confusion. What could be so urgent? She turned to Samir. "Please, continue with the list. I will be back in a moment."
She walked out into the corridor, closing the bedroom door behind her. "What is it What is so important that you had to interrupt me?"
The maid swallowed hard. Then, slowly, she brought her hands out from behind her back. She was holding something wrapped in a tissue paper. Her hands were shaking as she carefully unfolded the tissue, revealing the object inside.
It was a pregnancy test kit.
A white stick with a small screen — and on that screen, two clear pink lines.
Positive.
"I was cleaning Miss Zainab's bathroom... and I found this... in the trash bin. I did not know what to do. I did not know who to tell."
For a moment, the world stopped. The air was sucked out of the corridor. Aliya's perfectly composed face went completely blank. Her eyes, fixed on the two lines, widened in pure, unthinking shock.
Pregnant.
Zainab.
Her Zainab.