"And she embraced the chaos and it painted her life with purpose"
. JH.HARD
I am the daughter of a woman who was never allowed to love herself.
My mother was a giver—never a taker. I watched her shrink, piece by piece, until there was nothing left of her but exhaustion and silence.
She would serve, she would sacrifice, she would swallow her needs whole just to make space for everyone else.
I saw it in the way she only ate half a plate of food, in the way she never spoke up when she was hurting, in the way she poured every ounce of herself into us—until she was empty.
I tried. Allah, I tried to teach her that she was allowed to love herself, even though I couldn't love myself.
That she was allowed to be more than just a mother, more than just a caregiver, more than just a body built for service.
I begged her to rest, to take up space, to demand more. But she would only smile, tired and worn, and whisper, "This is what mothers do."
I told her, Mama, if you give all of yourself away… what will be left of you?
But she didn't listen. Or maybe she couldn't.
Now, she is gone. Not just in spirit, not just in ypieces—gone.
And I hate that the world didn't even notice her absence, never her suffering. I hate that she had to disappear before anyone realized she was barely there to begin with.
My mother gave up everything to be my mother. And now, I can only scream into the silence she left behind, praying she hears me wherever she is—Mama, you can rest now.
But I plan to be a better mother to my child than you were to me.
But for now I wanted to adore my baby with the little peace I was given
Mama looked at my child.
She had his face.
Yes, he denied her.
But she was mine.
For three months, I have lived in both torment and peace.
My body, untouched.
My soul, healing.
For the first time in so long, I could breathe.
Madam Maria took care of Zary like she was her own—
because I didn't know how.
I was lost.
But when I looked at my daughter,
I knew Allah sent her as my peace.
She was my angel.
She was the light after my pain.
For three months, I was forgotten.
Ibrahim never looked at me.
He never touched me.
The minister never sent for me.
They all left me alone.
And I thanked Allah for it.
I could finally hold my daughter without fear.
I could finally whisper to her, knowing she was safe.
I could finally shower without looking over my shoulder.
So I stepped away—just for a moment.
Then I heard it.
The knock.
Too familiar.
Too sharp.
Too final.
My heart crashed against my ribs, panic spreading like fire in my veins.
But my door was locked.
He couldn't get in.
He couldn't get in.
Then—
The click.
The lock turned.
And there he stood.
The man who made my life a living hell.
The man who swore he never fathered my daughter.
The man who was about to take everything from me.
Ibrahim.
"So this is your bastard child" he said, keeping his eye on my daughter, " so you decided to have a child?" He said with a devious smile stretching across his smile.
"It's been a while since you satisfied me, don't You think I've given you enough time? Undress and get on the bed" he said with finality in his voice.
But I looked from him to my child who was sleeping on the bed as well and he seemed to notice.
He had a serene smile on his face and was walking to where my child was but my legs moved before I could think I wanted to get to my child. I can't let him touch her but I felt a sting on my cheek, he slapped me.
"Please let me put her in her crib,I will do whatever you want" he looked at me and laughed but he started undressing her.
I don't remember how I started screaming.
One moment I was reaching for her— my baby, my child.
The next was my voice ripping through the air, it sounded so raw, so guttural, that it didn't feel like it belonged to me.
It sounded like how my mother screamed everyday.
"Please" I sobbed, my knees slamming against the floor as I clutch the hem of his robes "please she is just a baby, she is your child please"
He didn't even hesitate, he didn't even look at me.
Zary's tiny arm frail, her wail piercing through my skull like needles.
Her screams frantic, desperate— she was afraid.
She needs me.
I lunged forward grabbing his arm nails digging into his flesh. I don't care if he will kill me.
"LET HER GO" I screamed my voice raw, shaking and breaking "she's mine, please"
A sharp crack splintered through my ribs before I could even register the kick.
My body crumbled to the floor, pain searing through my sides.
I gasped, coughing and clutching my ribs, but it didn't matter. Nothing matters except the sound of my daughter's fading cries
Fading, no
No, no, no.
"Zary!" I sob, dragging myself across the floor. My fingernails break against the rough surface as I claw forward, inch by inch.
I reach out—my fingers just barely graze her tiny foot—before another hand yanks her away.
"NO!" I wail, my body collapsing beneath me as the door swings open.
I see Ibrahim standing there, his eyes cold, unreadable. Watching.
"You have no right," I whisper, my voice shaking. "You have no right to take her from me."
"You were never meant to have her." His words are like ice.
And then—
The door slams shut.
I don't hear her cries anymore.
I don't hear anything.
Just the deafening silence of a mother who has lost everything.
I curl into myself, my body convulsing with silent sobs. My hands tremble as they press against the floor where she had been.
I begged.
I screamed.
I had pleaded.
And still, they took her.
My heart is gone.
And in its place—
Only emptiness remains
The silence swallowed me whole.
I don't know how long I lay there, my face pressed against the cold floor, my body trembling with every breath. My chest is tight, my ribs aching, but the pain in my body is nothing—nothing—compared to the void in my heart.
They took her.
They took my baby.
I should move. I should fight. I should get up and tear this whole place apart until I find her.
But my limbs won't work.
Ibrahim is gone. That man is gone. And I am left alone, curled into myself like a discarded piece of trash.
My ears are still ringing with the sound of her screams.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I can still feel her tiny foot beneath my fingertips. I was so close.
And I failed.
A sharp sob rips from my throat, but no one hears it. No one cares.
Then—
The door creaks.
My heart lurches. I don't know if it's hope or fear that grips me as I force my body up, my hands shaking as I push myself off the floor. My vision blurs from the tears, from the pain, but I see the shadow standing in the doorway.
A man.
Not Ibrahim.
One of the servants.
He doesn't say anything. He just stands there, staring at me with something strange in his eyes.
Pity.
Dread coils in my stomach. My voice is barely a whisper.
"Where is she?"
He doesn't answer.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I stumble toward him. "Where is my daughter?!" I scream, grabbing the front of his robes, shaking him with all the strength I have left.
Still, he says nothing.
He only steps aside.
And then I see her.
A small, lifeless bundle wrapped in blood-stained cloth.
My heart stops. My breath vanishes. The world tilts.
No.
No, no, no, no, no—
I collapse to my knees, my hands reaching, but I'm afraid to touch her. Afraid that if I do, the nightmare will become real.
Her tiny face is too still. Too pale. Her lips, once pink and full of life, are now blue. Her body, once warm, now cold.
I let out a sound I don't recognize. A scream. A wail. A howl of grief so deep, so fractured, that it shakes my entire soul.
I pull her into my arms, cradling her against my chest, rocking her, begging—pleading—for her to wake up.
"Zary, baby, wake up," I whisper, pressing frantic kisses to her forehead. "Please, baby, open your eyes. Look at Mama."
She doesn't.
She never will again.
I scream.
I scream until my throat is raw. Until my voice gives out. Until my body shakes with sobs that don't stop, that will never stop.
They took her from me.
And now she's gone.
The world has ended, and I am trapped in the ruins of my own grief.
And as I rock my baby's lifeless body, the only thing I know for certain is this—
I will never forgive them.
What was my sin, Allah?
R is for the realization that the world can be a cruel and unforgiving place. That humans are capable of terrible things and that justice doesn't always prevail.
A is for the agony of it all. You can't wash off what has been done. You feel dirty. The bruises, the cuts, the rips...they all heal but the thing that doesn't heal just with time is your spirit and the agony in your mind.
P is for the perspective that so very few have. Unless you have been thrown it you don't have perspective but everything thinks they know.
E is for every moment you spend back there mentally. You relive it over and over. You deny what happened but you can't stop from knowing deep down it happened.
Rape...it's an ugly word for an ugly act. Rape...it's the worst thing any person can experience. I was raped and so was my three months child.
Those words cut like a knife.