The hospital never really slept.
Even at night, it breathed—soft footsteps in the corridor, muted beeps from machines, nurses speaking in hushed tones as if trying not to disturb the fragile lives held together behind thin curtains.
Amina sat in the dim light of her father's room, her scarf slipping from her hair as she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her father slept quietly, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured rhythm. The oxygen tube made each breath sound soft but controlled.
For the first time in hours, he looked peaceful.
Usman had stepped out to buy food, insisting that she needed something warm to eat. The last thing she remembered eating was the yam he had brought earlier, before everything spiraled. Her stomach growled faintly, but she ignored it.
Her mind was too full.
Maryam's apology.
Her father collapsing.
The doctor's warning.
Her own fear—thick, heavy, honest.
She hadn't felt fear like this since the night her mother died. A memory she rarely touched.
Don't go there, she told herself.
But memories had a way of crawling out even when the door was locked.
A soft knock pulled her back into the present.
A nurse peeked inside. "He's stable for now," she whispered. "But when he wakes, don't let him talk too much. His pressure could rise again."
Amina nodded. "Thank you."
The nurse smiled and closed the door gently.
Amina pulled her chair closer to her father's bed. She took his hand carefully, afraid of waking him but unable to let go. His skin was warm again—even that small detail felt like hope.
She leaned her head on the side of the bed. Slowly, sleep tugged at her, pulling her under.
—
She woke to the feeling of fingers brushing her hair gently.
"Amina…"
Her eyes fluttered open.
Her father was awake.
His voice was hoarse but steadier than before. "You should go home and rest."
"I'm fine," she said, sitting up straight. "You scared me."
He exhaled slowly. "I scared myself."
She studied him closely. Even in the hospital bed, with the drip tube taped to his arm, he still carried a quiet strength—exhausted, dented, but still there.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"Light." He managed a faint smile. "Like all the weight I refused to acknowledge finally fell off me."
Amina frowned. "Daddy…"
He looked at her with tired, tender eyes. "When you spoke yesterday… something inside me broke. But maybe it needed to."
She didn't know what to say.
Then he added, quieter, "I haven't been the father you deserved."
Amina shook her head. "Don't say that."
"But it's true," he said firmly. "I was so desperate to make my marriage work, I used you as the sacrifice. I closed my ears when I should have listened. I convinced myself you were strong enough to endure anything." His voice cracked. "But that wasn't fair."
Amina felt tears rise, but she blinked them back slowly. "We all made mistakes."
He squeezed her hand weakly. "I'm proud of you. Truly. You faced everything I refused to face."
Amina lowered her head. "I didn't want you to collapse for us to realize this."
He gave a breathy laugh. "Well… life doesn't wait for convenient moments to teach us lessons."
Before she could respond, his expression shifted slightly troubled, thoughtful.
"There is something… I need to tell you," he said.
Amina tensed. "What is it?"
He took a shaky breath. "Your mother didn't die the way everyone said."
Amina froze.
"What… what do you mean?"
His eyes filled with something she had never seen on his face guilt.
And fear.
Before he could speak, the door opened slowly.
Usman stepped in with a takeaway bag in his hand. "Food is here."
Amina turned sharply. "Usman"
Her father lifted a weak hand. "It's alright. He can stay."
Usman paused, confused, before walking in quietly.
But her father's gaze stayed locked on Amina.
"I should have told you long ago," he whispered. "But I kept waiting… hoping the truth would somehow become easier."
Amina's pulse quickened. "Daddy… what truth?"
He swallowed painfully. "Your mother didn't die from the illness the doctors wrote on the report."
Amina blinked hard. The words didn't fit. They didn't make sense. Her mother had been sick. Everyone had said it. The funeral, the neighbors, the women who came to pray—all of them had spoken the same story.
"What do you mean she didn't die from the illness?" Amina asked, breath trembling.
Her father closed his eyes.
"She died because of me."
Amina felt the world tilt.
Usman stiffened beside her, stunned into silence.
Amina's voice broke. "What are you talking about? Daddy—what are you saying?"
Her father's lips trembled. "Your mother wasn't sick enough to die. She was getting better. But I…" he paused, fighting for breath, "I made a mistake. A terrible one."
Amina shook her head slowly. "No. No. That can't be true"
"She had an allergy," he whispered. "A severe one. And I brought something into the house that triggered it. I didn't know. I didn't check. I thought… I thought it was harmless. By the time she reacted, it was too late."
Amina felt her chest tighten. "Daddy… stop…"
He continued, voice breaking. "I carried the guilt alone. I kept the truth from you because I couldn't bear the thought of losing you too. I tried to rewrite what happened. To protect myself. To protect you. But I've been running from that day for years."
The room felt too small.
The air too thin.
The walls too close.
Amina stood abruptly, stumbling backward. The shock hit her like a wave she couldn't stand against.
Usman caught her arm gently. "Amina…"
She pulled away.
Her heart thrashed against her ribs. "You lied to me all my life?"
Her father's voice trembled. "I was ashamed. Your mother trusted me. And I failed her."
Amina wrapped her arms around herself, shaking. "How could you hide something like that? How could you let me believe—"
"I couldn't lose you," he whispered again. "You were all I had left."
Amina pressed her palms to her face, tears slipping through her fingers. "And what about me? I lived with questions. Holes. Shadows. And all this time—"
Usman stepped closer, gently placing a hand on her back. "Amina… breathe."
She took a shaky breath, then another.
Her father looked at her with eyes full of pain. "I am ready to tell you everything. The full truth. No more hiding."
Amina stood there, trembling, unsure whether she wanted to hear it or run from it.
Her legs felt heavy.
Her chest felt tight.
Her thoughts spiraled.
Finally, she managed to speak barely.
"Not now."
Her father's face fell, but he nodded slowly. "I understand."
Amina wiped her face, trying to steady her breathing. "I need time."
Usman guided her gently toward the chair. She sank into it, exhausted.
Silence settled in the room again—thick, heavy, alive with the weight of everything exposed.
Her father drifted back into sleep, drained from the effort of confessing. Amina watched him, her emotions tangled and unsure.
Usman sat beside her, speaking softly. "Whatever the truth is… you'll face it. You're not alone."
Amina stared at the tiles on the floor.
"I don't know how to feel," she whispered.
"You don't have to know today."
She leaned forward, burying her face in her hands.
For the first time in her life, the story she believed about her past had cracked. And through the cracks, something painful was beginning to spill out.
But something else, too—
a chance to finally understand.
Amina lifted her head slowly, wiping her cheeks.
"Tomorrow," she whispered. "Tomorrow I'll hear everything."
And for the first time since morning, she felt her voice steady.
Not because she was ready.
But because she was done running.