As she grew, life demanded more of her than it did of other children.
Before sunrise, she helped her mother sweep the courtyard. After school, she carried water pots, her small arms trembling under their weight. At night, while other children played, she sat with her siblings, teaching them alphabets, keeping them busy so her mother could cook.
She never complained.
But sometimes, when the house was asleep, she would step outside, look up at the moon, and whisper:
*"Ya Allah… am I doing enough?"*
Those quiet talks with the sky became her true comfort.
School wasn't easy either. Books were expensive. Shoes tore. Teachers praised her brilliance but warned, *"Girls don't always get far. Don't dream too big."*
But dreams don't need permission.
She held onto them silently, gently—like holding a bird too weak to fly.
---TOO BE CONTINUED---