I went toward the dining table with the tea tray balanced carefully in my hands. My father, Farooq, sat at the head of the table, his newspaper open as always, while my stepmother, Nargis, watched me with that sharp gaze of hers.
“Careful, Hiba,” she said the moment I placed the cups down. “You’ll chip the set if you’re not mindful. Do you even know how much these cost?”
I bit back the words that rose to my lips. What would be the point? I’d learned long ago that nothing I said could change her opinion of me. She didn’t want me to be careful — she wanted me to be wrong.
Instead, I lowered my head and said evenly, “I’ll be more careful next time.”
Baba didn’t look up from his paper. He never does. I sometimes wonder if he even hears her words, or mine.
Maarya, my older sister, isn’t here — she rarely is these days. She has her own home, her husband,Imaan, her little daughter who clings to her dupatta and looks at the world with wide eyes. Sometimes, I envy her. She escaped.
Imran, my sixteen-year-old brother, is still asleep upstairs. He has the luxury of being the youngest, of slipping past Nargis’s notice. I, on the other hand, am the one who stands in her way.
Nargis sighed, stirring her tea as though I’d personally offended her.
“You should pay more attention. Small mistakes turn into habits. And habits reflect on the family name.”
Her voice cut through the air, but I only nodded. It didn’t hurt the way it used to. It just left a dull ache, like pressing on a bruise that never fully heals.
For a brief second, I glanced out the window, the sunlight spilling across the floor. Outside, the world felt wide and open. Inside, I felt like a bird in a cage.
I reminded myself, as I always did, that one day I would find a way out.
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