Amina didn't sleep that night. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the fan turning in slow tired circles. Her mind kept replaying the evening the argument, the way her father's voice had cracked, the way Maryam's eyes had flashed when she realized she had finally lost control.
By dawn, her pillow was damp.
She sat up, wiped her face, and told herself the simplest truth she knew:
If she didn't fight for her own life, nobody would.
When she stepped outside, the compound was quiet. Her father sat under the mango tree, hands clasped, staring into space like someone trying to solve a problem he couldn't even name.
"Daddy," she said softly.
He looked up. For the first time in a long time, she saw not anger or disappointment—just fear. Real, human fear.
"Amina," he breathed. "Come and sit."
She sat opposite him. The morning air was cold enough to sting her skin.
"I didn't know Maryam went that far," he said. "You hid too much from me."
"I told you," she murmured. "You just didn't want to hear it."
He swallowed hard. "Maybe I failed you."
Maybe? The word floated between them. She didn't say yes. She didn't say no. She simply waited.
He rubbed his face. "Your mother, if she were here, she'd be the one to guide you properly. I'm not good at this."
Amina inhaled sharply. Her mother. A wound that never healed.
"Daddy," she said gently, "I don't want to keep fighting this same battle every day. I want peace. I want my life to move forward. I want to breathe without fear."
He nodded slowly. "I understand. I won't let Maryam harm you again. This house must change."
It was a promise quiet, but real.
Just then, the door opened. Maryam stepped out, wrapped in a shawl, eyes red from crying or pretending to cry Amina couldn't tell.
She looked at Amina, then at her husband, and the bitterness in her gaze was unmistakable.
"Suleiman," she started, "so this is how we begin the morning? Sitting here and blaming me?"
"No one is blaming you," her father said, though his tone carried a warning.
Maryam scoffed. "Of course. Because your daughter is a saint, right? Everyone should bow to her."
"Maryam," he said firmly, "enough."
The silence that followed was sharp.
Amina stood. "I'm not here to fight. I'm tired."
Maryam's reply cut the air: "You are trying to take him away from me. That's what you've always wanted."
Amina stared at her, suddenly too exhausted to defend herself. "I just want to live."
Her father rose. "Both of you listen. This house cannot survive another war. We will sit down and talk properly. No shouting. No insults. No hiding."
Maryam folded her arms. "We'll see."
But behind that stiff posture, Amina sensed something new—fear. Not of Amina, but of losing influence. Losing control.
Amina walked past her toward the gate. She needed air.
As she stepped outside, her phone buzzed. A message from Usman.
"Are you okay? I've been thinking about you since last night."
Her chest softened.
"I'm alright," she typed back. "Just trying to survive the morning."
A second message came almost immediately.
"If you need to leave the house for a while, come to the shop. You don't have to face everything alone."
For a moment she stood still, letting the words warm the places inside her that had gone cold.
She realized something then not about Usman, but about herself.
She was done living like a shadow in her own life.
She was done being quiet so others could stay comfortable.
She was done being afraid.
Today wouldn't fix everything. But it felt like the first real step.
Amina turned back toward the gate, drew in a deep breath, and whispered to herself:
"Whatever comes next, I'm ready."