The mop made a soft squeaking sound across the tiled floor as Nayla moved it back and forth. Her hair was tied in a loose bun, and sweat shone on her forehead. She kept talking with her mother while her hands worked fast.
On the bed, Nafisa sat with her back resting against two pillows. She looked weak. Their house was very small—it was a government quarter given to her because of her job. It was not modern, not rich-looking, but it had its own charm. The window brought in sunlight, the curtains were old but clean, and the smell of soap and washed clothes filled the room.
Though was a bit messy these days. Not because they were careless, but because Nayla had taken all the work on her shoulders. She didn't allow her mother to do even the smallest thing after the surgery. Everything was Nayla's duty now—washing clothes, cooking food, sweeping the floor, even combing her mother's hair.
Nafisa's head still showed the mark of her operation. One side of her hair was shaved during the surgery. Soft, tiny hair had started to grow again, but that side still looked tender. Whenever Nayla touched it, she did so with great care, making sure the clips and pins never pressed against the scar.
After rinsing the mop in the bucket, Nayla went to wash her hands. While rubbing the soap, she spoke, "What a personality… and the way he talks, mummy. Brother Ibi is an amazing man."
Ever since the day in the hospital, when Ibrahim stood beside her while Nafisa was inside the OT, Nayla had carried that memory like a treasure. She had repeated the story to her mother countless times—how he was there when she needed someone the most, how his presence gave her strength when she thought she would collapse from fear.
The first time Nafisa had heard Ibrahim's name, she had thought it was some other Ibrahim. But when Nayla mentioned his surname, Nafisa's heart skipped. That surname belonged to a family she knew very well. And Zainab—was Ibrahim's sister. The realization shocked her for a moment. Everything slowly connected in her mind: even the hospital bill, which Nayla thought had been managed by Zainab's cousin, was actually paid by Ibrahim himself.
Nayla noticed her mother's faraway look and frowned. She waved her wet hands lightly in front of Nafisa's face.
"Mummy, you're not hearing me. You're saying something else in your mind, I know it."
Nafisa came back to the moment, nodded gently, "I'm listening. Don't worry. Just tell me—today Zainab didn't come? It's Sunday. Every Sunday she visits."
Nayla picked up the pile of dry clothes from the chair and began folding them carefully, her small hands smoothing out every wrinkle. "I told her not to come, mummy. Because you're healing so well now and I can manage everything. Besides.... Zainab is from a very well family. You know that. She has a house much bigger than this entire block of quarters. Look at us—we live in this little quarter, with old furniture and small rooms."
She placed the folded a shirt on the bed and picked up another cloth, keeping her hands busy, "Every Sunday she comes here, she sits on this hard plastic chair, she stays for hours with us… she never complains, never makes a face, always asks if we need anything. Always smiling. But mummy, I see it—I see the difference. I know how uncomfortable it must be for her, even if she hides it so well. No matter how kind she is, no matter how sweetly she talks, at the end of the day she belongs to a world far away from ours. She's too good to be burdened like that. That's why I told her to rest today. She doesn't need to give her Sundays to us."
Nafisa paused for a moment, her eyes distant as if she were thinking of something far away, "Sometimes friendship with rich people… it costs a lot. It's not easy to stay equal in such friendships."
"No, mummy… that's not true for everyone." Nayla shook her head quickly, "Not all rich people are bad. Zainab… she's different. She never makes me feel like I owe her anything. I don't want to depend on her too much, that's all. She's my closest friend, maybe the closest I've ever had. But I have to… make sure I can stand on my own too. That's why I hold back sometimes."
Nafisa's lips curved into a warm smile. "Come here." Nayla immediately moved closer and sat beside her mother on the bed. Nafisa leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to Nayla's forehead. Nayla closed her eyes and hugged her mother tightly.
"You've grown up so beautifully, Nayla. I never thought… I never imagined you'd become this strong, this thoughtful, this… kind. I'm so proud of you, my darling."
Just then, the doorbell rang, breaking the quiet moment. Nayla pulled back slightly, "Who comes now to destroy this peace? Maybe it's just the milkman. Let me check."
She walked quickly through the little yard. It was empty, not even a single flowerpot—it was easier to clean. Just plain ground, surrounded by tall cement walls. The walls were so high that Nayla could never see who was at the gate unless she actually opened it.
When she reached the wooden gate, she pulled it open with one hand, expecting to see the milkman or maybe a neighbor.
Instead, her eyes went wide.
Standing outside was Ibrahim. Dressed in a dark three-piece suit, his tie perfectly in place, sunglasses covering his eyes, and a brown leather office bag hanging in his hand. The aura around him was heavy, like a grim reaper arriving at someone's door.
"Brother Ibi!!!" Nayla exclaimed. She couldn't believe he was here, right in front of her gate.
Ibrahim removed his sunglasses, "How are you, Nayla?"
Nayla's lips curved into the a wide smile, "I'm good… more than good! And—honestly—I'm so, so surprised to see you here!"
"I had some free time today," Ibrahim replied smoothly. "So I thought of checking on you. And…" he paused, "on your mother too."
She nodded quickly, "She'll be so happy to see you, brother Ibi."
Ibrahim raised one brow, his smile turning faintly teasing. "And what about you? Are you going to let me stand out here until evening, or will you invite me inside?"
"Oh! I'm so sorry." Nayla gasped, realizing she had completely forgotten. Her cheeks turned red as she waved her hands in panic, "Really sorry! Please, come in. I don't know what's wrong with me, I was too shocked to think!"
She stepped aside quickly, holding the gate wide open for him. Ibrahim walked in. His sharp eyes moved around the small yard and the simple house, but he didn't say a single word.
Nayla hurried ahead of him, almost running. "I'll go tell mummy!" She went inside called out loudly, "Mummy, mummy—Brother Ibi is here!"
Nafisa looked up with a puzzled expression, her hands pausing on her lap. Before she could even react to Nayla's words, Ibrahim was already standing near the doorway.
Nayla pulled a wooden chair from the corner and placed it directly in front of him. "Here, sit, Brother Ibi," she said sweetly, brushing the dust off the seat with her hand. She wanted to make sure he was comfortable. Then, trying not to make it obvious, she grabbed a small perfume spray and quickly freshened the curtains. For her, Ibrahim's arrival was a special honor.
He sat down slowly, his hand reaching to open the button of his coat. "I hope," he said, his eyes fixed on Nafisa, "You don't mind me coming like this, without any notice. I was planning to come earlier, but my work kept me busy. Too many meetings, new investment and not enough peace. But looking at you, it seems you are not happy to see me here."
Nafisa blinked several times. She did not know what shocked her more—that her stepson was sitting infront of her… or that such a powerful and well-known businessman had walked straight into her house.
Nayla glanced once at her mother, noticing the silence on her face, "Actually, mummy is just… surprised to see you here. Isn't it, mummy?"
Nafisa gave a small nod, forcing a smile.
Ibrahim's gaze shifted from Nafisa to Nayla, "I heard you are not going to school these days, Nayla. Is that true?"
Nayla sat down on the edge of the bed, "Who told you that?"
He leaned back slightly, resting one arm on the chair. "Zainab. She came to my home recently with her cousin. While talking, she mentioned you… so that's how I came to know."
"I will go soon… after mummy gets better. She always tells me not to miss my classes, but I don't want to leave her alone at home. Yusuf is here, he gives me notes and updates from school, so I am not falling behind. Don't worry, Brother Ibi. I will go back soon… oh, I keep talking so much! Let me bring some soft drinks for you."
Without waiting for an answer, Nayla jumped up, reached for her mother's purse, and took some money. She rushed outside in a hurry. Ibrahim didn't even bother to stop her or mention that he never drank soft drinks. He wanted that one thing—time alone with Nafisa.
She tried to sit up straighter, clutching the blanket in her weak hands. "You… you have grown into such a fine man, Ibrahim. I am glad… so glad to see you."
Ibrahim turned his head sharply. The warm smile he had worn was gone. His eyes were cold, "Don't be so glad, Nafisa. I didn't come here for polite words or blessings. I came because there are things I cannot leave unsaid anymore. Do you know what it feels like to watch history repeat itself?"
His tone was sharp but not loud, "First, it was you—stepping into my father's life when he already had a family. And now, what are you trying to do? Make Nayla and Zainab friends just to break my family apart again? I came here because I wanted to look at you in the eyes and remind you of what you did."
Nafisa's face lost its color. "Ibrahim… I didn't even know Nayla and Zainab were friends. I only found out recently..... after my surgery. I swear to you, I didn't plan this. I have already made one mistake in life, marrying Zafar. I admit that. But look at me now. Look at my condition. Isn't this punishment enough? My only support is Nayla. I don't have anyone else."
Ibrahim let out a bitter laugh, "Punishment? You call this punishment? No, Nafisa. What you live with now is only a shadow of the destruction you caused. Do you know what you took away from me? From my siblings? I dreamed of a home where my parents would sit together, where we would eat meals as a family, where I could look at my father with respect. You shattered all of that. You stole what every child deserves—the right to grow in a clean home."
His hands clenched on his knees, "My mother still talks about my father with love. She smiles when she remembers him. She tells us stories, as if he was the best man on earth. And I have to sit there and nod, while I carry the filth of truth inside my chest. She doesn't know what he really was. She doesn't know he betrayed her. The worst part is I knew everything. And I had to keep it inside."
Nafisa's eyes welled with tears. Her lips moved as if to say something, but Ibrahim's voice cut her silence.
"Do you even understand what that does to a boy? To grow up carrying poison in his heart, but still acting like everything is fine? My siblings cry for their father. They pray for him. They miss him. And I… I can't say that their father was not the man they believe he was. Because if I say it, their hearts will break. So I bury it. I bury it all inside me. You destroyed my chance at being a son without shame. You destroyed my mother's chance at being a wife who was respected. And the worst part? You sit here now, playing the role of a victim, as if life punished you too much. Don't call yourself a victim, Nafisa. You don't have the right. You chose this path. And because of you, my entire family walks on broken glass every day."
Nafisa lifted her trembling hand and wiped her tears with the edge of her palm. Her voice cracked as she spoke, but she forced the words out.
"I am sorry … sorry for everything. That time I was young… and foolish. I thought I had found love, and I closed my eyes to the truth. I followed a wrong path without thinking what it would do to others. I didn't know—God knows, I didn't know—that my mistake would destroy a whole family. I was blind, blind in love with Zafar. He said all the right words, he made me feel special. And I… I believed him. I thought it was love. I didn't think of his wife. I didn't think of his children. I only thought of myself. And now, years later, I see the ruins left behind. My life is broken too, Ibrahim. And every day I live with this guilt. Believe me, if I could go back."