Summer came again, bringing long days and slow afternoons. School felt lighter, and everything seemed easier. Every summer, I went to my grandfather's house. He was strict, but his home was full of people and noise. My cousins lived there—Usman, his sisters, and Sana, who was my age. I liked being around them. Everyone treated me well, and I listened to them without trouble. It felt good to be there.
A full day passed quickly in that house. We woke up late, ate meals together, and spent hours talking and playing. There was always laughter. Sometimes we stayed outside until the evening air cooled and the sky changed color. Those days felt complete. I didn't feel worried or scared. I just felt happy.
When summer ended, life went back to routine. School started again. Mornings became busy, and evenings filled with homework and small habits. At first, everything felt normal.
But slowly, things inside the house began to feel different.
My parents talked less. My mother seemed more tired than before. She was still strict, but now it felt heavier, like she was carrying something she couldn't put down. My father stayed quiet most of the time. I didn't understand why. I didn't ask.
I focused on school and friends. I tried to stay happy. I still came home excited, still watched cartoons, still played whenever I could. I thought that as long as I did my part, everything would stay fine.
At night, I sometimes heard voices speaking softly, then stopping suddenly. Doors opened and closed. Long silences followed. I didn't know what any of it meant. I only knew it made me uncomfortable.
Days passed. Nothing big happened, but the feeling stayed.
I started noticing things more. Faces. Tones. Silence. I didn't understand them, but I felt them. It was like something had changed, even though life looked the same.
I was still a child. I still believed things would sort themselves out. I didn't know that these quiet days were preparing me for what would come next.
At that time, I just kept moving forward, thinking life was still simple.
Life kept moving forward, even though something inside our home felt off. School became harder, not just because of books, but because expectations grew. Teachers wanted more. Homework increased. I was told to focus, to improve, to be better. I tried. I really did. But some days, my mind wasn't in the classroom. It was somewhere else, trying to understand things I didn't have words for.
My brother was still young. I loved him, watched over him, and felt responsible for him even when I didn't know why. Sometimes we fought, like all siblings do. Sometimes we laughed. Other times, he felt distant, and I couldn't tell what I had done wrong. I didn't know then how moments shape feelings, how small events can leave marks that last longer than you expect.
At home, silence became normal. Not peaceful silence—heavy silence. My parents spoke when needed, not more. My mother carried herself with strength, but it looked exhausting. My father stayed quiet, often away, even when he was present. I learned not to ask questions. I learned to stay in my place.
School became my escape and my burden at the same time. Friends helped. Laughter helped. But once I came home, everything felt smaller. Tighter. I began understanding that happiness didn't stay on its own—you had to protect it, and sometimes even that wasn't enough.
Then came the moment when "normal" finally broke.
I don't remember it as one loud event. I remember it as a feeling. A realization. That things were not going back to how they were. That adults could change. That families could crack quietly, without warning.
I was still young, still learning, still hoping. But something inside me shifted. I stopped expecting answers. I stopped believing everything would fix itself. I started observing instead of trusting.
That was the beginning of growing up.
Not the age. Not the responsibility.
But the loss of certainty.
Days began to blend together. School, home, sleep, repeat. Nothing dramatic happened, yet everything felt heavier. I became quieter without noticing. I listened more. I spoke less. It felt safer that way.
At school, I tried to do well. Some days I succeeded, other days I didn't. When I failed, it stayed with me longer than it should have. I started comparing myself to others, wondering why things felt easier for them. Teachers talked about the future as if it was something clear and planned. To me, it felt distant and uncertain.
At home, my brother and I grew apart without meaning to. Small arguments turned into silence. I still cared for him, still felt protective, but the connection felt weaker. I didn't know how to fix it. I didn't even know it needed fixing.
My mother remained strong, holding the house together with discipline and routine. I could tell she was tired, but she didn't slow down. My father stayed distant. Sometimes he felt like a guest in our own home. I didn't understand why things were like this, only that they were different now.
There were moments when I missed the simple days. The summers at my grandfather's house. The laughter of my cousins. The feeling of being safe without thinking about it. Those memories stayed with me, quiet but clear.
Slowly, I learned how to stay out of the way. How to read the room. How to hide confusion behind silence. These weren't lessons anyone taught me. I picked them up on my own.
Life was no longer just about playing and laughing. It was about observing, adjusting, and moving forward without asking too many questions.
I didn't realize it then, but this was shaping me.
The boy who once believed life was simple was still there—but he was learning how to survive in a world that wasn't.
Rules became clearer as time passed. Some were spoken. Others were understood without being said. I learned when to talk and when to stay quiet. I learned how to avoid conflict by stepping back before it started. It wasn't fear exactly—it was awareness.
School pressure increased. Expectations followed me everywhere. Marks mattered more. Mistakes felt bigger. When I did well, it was noticed briefly. When I didn't, it stayed longer. I started feeling like I had to prove something, though I wasn't sure to whom.
At home, emotions were controlled. No one talked openly about what they felt. Everyone carried their own weight. I watched my mother manage everything with strength and routine, never stopping even when she looked exhausted. I watched my father grow more distant, his presence quieter than his absence.
My brother and I existed side by side. We weren't close like before, but we weren't strangers either. There was a gap between us that neither of us knew how to cross. I still cared about him deeply, even when it didn't show.
There were nights when I questioned myself. Not out loud, not clearly—just small thoughts that came and went. Was I doing enough? Was I wrong somewhere? Could I fix things by being better, quieter, smarter?
I didn't have answers. I didn't look for them either.
Life moved forward. Days passed. I adapted.
I became someone who observed more than he spoke, who felt deeply but showed little. The world around me didn't stop changing, and neither did I.
This wasn't the end of anything.
It was only the start of understanding that life doesn't wait for you to be ready.
The change did not arrive all at once. It came in pieces.
At first, it was distance. My parents spoke only when necessary. Decisions were made without discussion in front of us. The house felt organized, but empty in a way I couldn't explain. I learned not to ask questions, because answers never came clearly.
Then one day, I heard a word I didn't fully understand at the time, but it stayed with me. Divorce.
No one sat me down to explain it. No one told me what it meant for us. I picked it up from fragments of conversations, from serious faces, from the way silence grew heavier instead of lighter. I was still too young to understand the legal meaning, but I understood the feeling. Something permanent was breaking.
I thought about moments from before. About my father when he used to smile more. About my mother when her strictness felt lighter. About my brother and how we once stayed close without trying. None of it made sense together anymore.
When the separation became real, life didn't stop. That surprised me. School continued. Days followed their routine. But home was no longer the same place. It felt divided, even when we were all still there.
My mother became stronger out of necessity. She carried responsibility without complaint. I began noticing how much she did, how little rest she took. My father became more distant, not angry, just absent in a quiet way. I didn't know who to be upset with, so I stayed quiet instead.
My brother reacted differently. I could feel it. He pulled away from me, even when I tried to stay close. I didn't blame him. I didn't know how to fix it. I just knew that something I loved was slipping away.
That was when childhood truly ended—not because of age, but because certainty was gone.
I stopped believing that families stayed together just because you wanted them to. I stopped believing that being good was enough to keep things whole. I learned that some things break no matter how carefully you hold them.
And still, life went on.
I went to school. I followed rules. I did what was expected. But inside, I was no longer the same boy who thought the world was simple.
I was learning to live with change.
One night changed everything.
It was late. The house was quiet, the kind of quiet I had grown used to. I was lying awake when I heard a loud sound coming from the bedroom. Then shouting. Then a voice that froze me in place.
"Help me."
It was my mother.
My heartbeat skipped. I didn't think. I ran to the door and knocked again and again, harder each time. My hands were shaking. My mind couldn't understand what was happening, but my body knew something was wrong.
When the door finally opened, I saw my father.
Or at least, someone who looked like him.
The man standing there didn't feel like the father I remembered. His face was different. His eyes were different. In that moment, I understood something without anyone telling me. He had changed. And whatever we had before was gone.
After that night, nothing was the same.
The decision to separate didn't come with long explanations. It came with silence and finality. I was not asked many questions, but I knew my answer. I chose my mother. My brother stayed with us too.
We left.
We moved to Karachi, to my grandfather's home. A new place. New rules. A new life that didn't feel familiar yet. I joined a new school, surrounded by new faces. My cousins were there, and being around them helped. Their presence softened the change, even if it couldn't erase it.
Everything felt different, but there was no going back.
Outside, people talked. They whispered about my family, criticized, judged, and assumed. I heard it all. Sometimes it reached my ears like a cold wind, chilling but distant. I didn't answer. I didn't fight. I just listened. Because I knew the truth, even if no one else did.
That was the moment when my childhood truly split into two parts—before that night, and after it.
I didn't talk about it. I carried it quietly. Like everything else.
And life continued, even though I was no longer the same.
Life at my grandfather's house was different. Everything was strict—rules for everything, from waking up to going to bed, how to speak, how to walk, even how to eat. At first, it felt suffocating. I missed the freedom I had once known, the small laughs I shared with my cousins or Shan.
But slowly, I learned the rhythm. I learned when to follow, when to stay quiet, and when I could find small moments for myself. And in those small moments, my cousins became my world. Usman's confidence made me feel safe. His sisters' laughter reminded me that life could still be bright. And Sana, who was my age, became my companion in both schoolwork and play. Around them, I could forget, even for a little while, the heaviness I carried.
Even with rules and routines, even with whispers and judgment outside the house, I found small pieces of happiness. They didn't erase the past, but they reminded me that life could still hold warmth. I listened, I obeyed, and I learned.
And so, that chapter of my life ended quietly—not with fireworks or drama, but with the slow, steady realization that I could survive, that I could adapt, and that even in a world that had changed forever, I could still find places to belong.
The boy I had been—the one who believed everything was simple—was gone. In his place was someone learning, watching, and holding onto small pieces of joy wherever they could be found.
But it was all destiny...