Friday, 16 February 2018

Another Doomsday

Astagfirullah…

So, the day I tiptoed around in prayers and nightmares finally knocked.

Mom and Dad—  as if life hadn’t already played its cruel tricks on them—
now had front-row seats to another episode of “what else could possibly go wrong?”

Dad, with his tired eyes and too-heavy heart, shouldn't have to deal with
the petty dramatics of a house not his own.

And Mom…
She already bore the shame of my divorce like a quiet bruise under her hijab— one she never spoke of, but I saw it in the way she blinked away questions at every wedding we attended.

Now this?

Now she has to meet her daughter-in-law's true colors— which, ironically, don’t match the pastels she wears.

Such a lovely girl, they said.

Such grace, such sweetness.

And today— she shattered plates like promises, screamed like it was a competition, threw words and objects without checking who they might hit.

Even the little guy just  watched in stunned silence— the kind of silence kids remember.

And me?


What did I do?

Nothing.


Just stood there.

Breathing.

Drowning in guilt for not shielding Mom from the fireworks disguised as marriage.

She even accused me— me—of whispering poison to Mom.


Sweetheart, if I wanted to poison her, you’d already be choking on apologies.

She blocked me on everything: Path, Facebook, Instagram— Oh no!

Whatever shall I do without her perfectly curated breakfasts and inspirational quotes?

(Spoiler: I’m fine.)

But let’s be honest.


Even if she blocked me from every pixel of her world— she can't block the truth.


Her husband is still my brother. 


No app can change blood.

Not even the premium version.

And someday, maybe when she’s scrolling through old memories,trying to filter regret, she’ll remember the way Mom looked at her with disappointment so quiet,it thundered.

Here’s the twist though— I’m not angry.

No.


I’m exhausted.

I’m done playing villain in a play I didn’t audition for.

Let her have the stage.


Let her monologue in flames.

I’ll be in the audience— clapping slowly. 


Smiling kindly.

Waiting for her to forget her lines.

Because eventually, the sweetest revenge is peace.

And I?


I’m already halfway there.

No comments:

Post a Comment