The house was too quiet for a night that had carried that kind of panic.
Zarah sat alone in the dim living room, the only light coming from the flickering television she wasn't watching. Her tote bag was still on the floor where she'd dropped it hours earlier. Her eyes were swollen, her body bone-heavy, stiff from crying, running, waiting, praying.
Every time she blinked, she saw it again—her father unconscious, pale, still, swallowed by hospital sheets and fluorescent light.
A soft door creak broke the silence.
Aishah stepped into the room, her bonnet pushed slightly to the side, her shoulders slumped, eyes red and puffy like they'd both been crying in separate rooms. She hovered for a second before sitting beside her sister.
"Zee..." she whispered.
Zarah didn't look away from the TV screen. "You should be sleeping."
"How can I sleep?" Aishah wrapped her arms around her knees, voice small, scared. "Dad is... he's really not waking up?"
Zarah exhaled slowly, feeling every ache inside her rib cage. "The doctor said they'll run more scans in the morning. They just... they don't know yet."
Aishah's breath stuttered as she buried her face in her palms. "God... why now?"
Zarah finally turned, really seeing her—her younger sister who always laughed first and worried later. But tonight, Aishah trembled like a child, and something inside Zarah twisted painfully.
"Do you think it was stress?" Aishah asked, voice breaking. "Or the bills? He never told us it was this bad."
Zarah felt her jaw tighten. "He didn't want us to worry."
"But he was drowning, Zee." Aishah's voice cracked. "I saw the overdue notices in the kitchen drawer. I— I didn't know it was this bad."
Guilt rose like acid. "I should've been sending more. I should've—"
"Don't." Aishah grabbed her hand, gripping hard. "You've done everything."
But the words didn't land. Not on Zarah. Not tonight.
Silence settled again—thick, suffocating, heavy with fear neither of them knew what to do with.
Then—the sound of footsteps. Slow. Sharp. Purposeful.
Their mother.
She entered the living room like she was arriving late to a lecture, silk robe tied neatly at the waist, face composed, chin lifted. Not grief. Not worry. Irritation.
"Oh," she said, folding her arms. "So you're sitting here crying again."
Zarah felt Aishah stiffen beside her.
Mom clicked her tongue. "You came back from that office looking like a broken branch. And for what? They probably dumped you in one of those cheap roles, didn't they?"
Her lips curled into something cruel.
"What is it now? Janitor? Mail runner?"
Aishah inhaled sharply. "Mummy—"
"No," Zarah cut in, calm but razor-edged. "Let her talk."
Her mother gave her that familiar, exhausting look—disappointment dressed as superiority.
"You bragged when you left, Zarah. 'In your face, Mom. I've made it.' Remember that?" She gestured around the room—the peeling paint, the outdated furniture, the silence that never used to exist. "But look at us now. Look at this house. Look at you."
A beat.
"You should've worked harder. Maybe then we wouldn't be—"
Zarah stood.
Not in anger. Not in panic. In decision.
"Open your eyes," she said, voice low, steady, frighteningly controlled.
Her mother blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Open your eyes, Mom." Zarah stepped closer, tears burning but refusing to fall. "We are living in poverty. Real poverty. And you're still acting like you're the queen of this place."
"Watch your tone—"
"No." The word sliced clean. "I've watched my tone for years. I swallowed things for years. But tonight? No."
Her mother's posture tightened, but Zarah didn't stop.
"You blame me for not doing enough. You think I don't lie awake wondering if I could've saved him from this? From working himself into the hospital?" Her voice wavered, but she pushed through. "That man nearly died trying to keep this family standing while you held onto pride. Pride that has done nothing but destroy us."
Aishah's hand came up to touch her arm—gentle, pleading—but Zarah shook her head.
"Say whatever you want about me," she whispered, "but don't rewrite the story. Don't pretend you didn't see this coming. You ignored every sign because pretending was easier."
The room froze.
Their mother's eyes glistened—but not with remorse. With disbelief. With offense. With ego.
Zarah stepped back, breath trembling.
"And for the record," she said quietly, "I'm not the reason we're struggling. You are. Because you're too proud to accept help, too stubborn to change, too blind to see the truth right in front of you."
Aishah gasped softly.
Their mother didn't speak—couldn't.
Zarah turned and walked toward the hallway.
No door slam.
No dramatic cry.
Just a quiet, controlled exit—
the kind that leaves everyone bleeding.
And the house stayed painfully silent long after her bedroom door clicked shut.
⸻
Inside her room, Zarah let her back hit the door and finally breathed—messy, uneven, too human. Her bag slid to the floor, forgotten, as she sank onto the bed.
Her hands threaded into her hair, tugging gently, like grounding herself was the only thing keeping her from collapsing. The house was silent again, but this silence wasn't peaceful—it was the kind that came after war.
Her father's face flashed in her mind—the weak smile, the bruises, the strain in his voice when he said her name. He was alive. He was still here. That alone should've been enough to anchor her.
But her mother's words—
the dismissal,
the condescension,
the refusal to see reality—
cut deeper than she wanted to admit.
She closed her eyes, forcing her breaths to slow.
She remembered being new to America—working night shifts, taking buses in the snow, saving pennies, fighting to build something from nothing. She remembered every insult, every rejection, every moment she almost gave up.
She didn't survive all that to be told she was nothing.
Not anymore.
Zarah lay back on the pillows, staring at the ceiling. For a moment, her thoughts drifted—uninvited—to Alex. His concern, the way he looked at her outside the office, like he saw her unraveling before she did.
But she pushed him away in her mind.
There would be time for that later.
Maybe.
If life allowed it.
Tonight belonged to her father.
To fear.
To truth.
To the painful clarity that everything had to change.
Tomorrow, she would return to the office.
Tomorrow, she would face whatever storm waited there.
But tonight, she reminded herself of who she was—
Zarah Morgan.
Daughter.
Sister.
Fighter.
Survivor.
And nothing—not pride, not poverty, not fear, not her mother's words—would strip that away from her again.