Hadi and Lubna’s marriage had been arranged, like many others in their families, with care, tradition, and a quiet hope for happiness. It was five years ago when Hadi, having just taken over his father’s flourishing business, found himself at a point in life where marriage was the next step. His mother, with a gentle insistence born of love and concern, had brought up the topic repeatedly. And eventually, it was she who found Lubna.
As was customary, the two families met. Hadi and Lubna sat across from one another with soft smiles and respectful curiosity. They liked what they saw, both good-looking, driven, and rooted in family values. They approved, their parents approved, and within a few meetings, the decision was made. They were engaged for two months before the wedding bells rang.
And what a celebration it had been. A swirl of laughter, rituals, colors, and whispered promises. Both Hadi and Lubna had been overjoyed, hearts brimming with excitement. Even though they had barely known each other then, the days following their wedding sparked something real. Affection turned to warmth, and warmth to love. That love bloomed fully on their honeymoon in Paris. Amid the cobbled streets and golden sunsets, Hadi had taken her to a rooftop dinner overlooking the Seine and, under fairy lights and soft music, he’d confessed his love.
It had been grand, cinematic, heartfelt.
Lubna had only one condition before they got married, and she had stated it clearly, her eyes steady, her tone calm.
“No matter what, you will never ask me to give up working,” she had said. At the time, she was just starting her career as an interior designer, joining the ranks of her family’s boutique design business.
Hadi had agreed without hesitation. He had smiled, touched by her passion.
“Of course,” he had said. “Everyone has a right to chase their dreams. You have yours. And I promise I’ll support you always.”
After their wedding, Lubna expressed a desire to live separately. She wanted a home of their own, something she could decorate, shape, build memories in. Hadi had hesitated at first. His parents lived with him, and moving out didn’t feel right. But eventually, on his parents’ gentle insistence, particularly his mother, who wanted the young couple to have space, Hadi agreed. He purchased a new home. A modern, sunlit house that Lubna filled with her aesthetic touches, warm earthy tones, and cozy corners.
Married life began beautifully. Like any couple, they had their share of disagreements, petty arguments over weekend plans, forgotten errands, or clashing schedules. But Hadi made it a point to apologize first, always. No matter what. He had vowed never to let her sleep angry, and he kept that vow.
For the first three years, they lived a life full of shared dreams and laughter. They travelled, hosted friends, went on long drives together, and planned for the future.
Then, in the fourth year, Lubna found out she was pregnant.
When she told Hadi, he was ecstatic. Over the moon didn't even begin to describe it. He had twirled her in his arms, laughing like a child, his joy uncontained. His eyes had sparkled as he cupped her face, planting a kiss on her forehead, his smile stretching from ear to ear.
For days, he walked around the house in a daze of happiness, humming songs, making lists, already imagining what the nursery would look like. Lubna, too, had been glowing, her face radiant in a way that only expectant mothers carry. But there were moments, small, subtle, when Hadi noticed her drifting away. She would stare into nothingness, lost in thought, not hearing him when he spoke. Her eyes, often, seemed burdened.
One evening, unable to ignore it anymore, he gently confronted her.
They sat on the couch, the evening light pouring through the windows, casting golden patches on the tiled floor. He reached for her hand.
“Lubna, is everything okay?” he asked, his voice soft, concerned. “You’ve seemed distant lately.”
She paused, her hand tightening slightly in his. Then, as if a dam had broken, she began to speak. Her voice trembled at first, but soon, all her thoughts poured out. Her fears. Her worries.
She was terrified.
Afraid that the baby would derail everything she had built, her career, her independence, her dreams. She had just started to gain recognition in her field. Her projects were increasing. She didn’t want to be sidelined, to give it all up.
Hadi was shocked, not by her ambition, but by the next words she spoke.
“Can we consider... not going through with it?” she asked hesitantly, barely meeting his eyes.
His heart clenched.
For a moment, he couldn’t speak. He had never said no to her for anything. A hundred thoughts whirled through his mind. But when he finally found his voice, it was calm, gentle. He didn’t shout. He didn’t accuse.
“Lubna,” he said, “please don’t say that. This baby... it’s ours. Our blood. Our happiness.”
His eyes welled with tears. The rawness in his voice softened her. He pleaded with her, not with anger but with love.
“I promise you, your career will not suffer. I’ll make sure of it. Don’t take this away from us before it even begins.”
Lubna looked at him, her eyes stinging with guilt and vulnerability. She saw how much it meant to him, this child. She remembered how he’d always lit up around children, how he’d linger around his niece and nephew at family gatherings. She knew if she'd still say no and go ahead with the abortion, Hadi would support her. But did she want to? No. Not anymore.
She nodded, her voice a whisper.
“I’m sorry... I won’t think of it again. I just panicked.”
Hadi pulled her into his arms, holding her close, a silent promise made in that embrace.
And he kept that promise.
When their son was born, Hadi had named him: Zohan. A name that meant "gift from God." Lubna had smiled when he said it, nodded, and said she liked it too.
From that day on, Hadi stepped into fatherhood with his whole heart. In the first few months, he was the one who stayed awake through the long, sleepless nights. He would rock Zohan to sleep, change his diapers, burp him, bathe him, dress him. He did it all, allowing Lubna to rest. And later, when she resumed work just a month after childbirth, he still carried the weight of responsibilities without complaint.
Lubna never had to ask.
Even though he was the CEO of his own company, he had taken three months off from work as paternity leave, something few men did. Not once did he bring up how absent she was, or how little time she had for the baby.
Because he had promised her.
He wouldn’t make her choose between her child and her dreams.
Lubna wasn’t a careless mother. She loved Zohan. She played with him when she could, fed him, and cared for him when Hadi was away. But her focus remained on her career. That had always been her priority, and Hadi accepted that.
After three months, when he resumed work, his mother stepped in to help. She would come over every morning and care for Zohan with warmth and ease, leaving once Hadi or Lubna returned home. Hadi was deeply grateful to her, for her support, her silence, and her constant presence.
One year passed like this, chaotic, beautiful, exhausting, and full of love.
Until one day, Hadi had to leave for a business meeting in Nashik.
And that’s when everything changed.
From that day forward, life spiraled into chaos.
---
It was a bright, sunny morning. The sunlight filtered softly through the cream-colored curtains of the apartment living room, casting a warm golden hue on the floor. Maira sat quietly on the beige couch, her back slightly hunched, a white pillow cover resting on her lap as she worked delicately on an embroidery pattern. Each stitch was small, precise, almost meditative. Her fingers moved on their own while her mind remained somewhere else entirely.
It had been two days. Two long, hollow days since they had returned from the doctor’s visit. Two days since she had seen or heard anything from Hadi, not a call, not a message, not even an update of when he'd be visiting her next. The silence echoed in the apartment, loud and unrelenting.
Loneliness had crept in quietly, like a fog in the night, and now it sat with her, silent but ever-present. In its company, Maira turned to the only things that didn’t leave: her thoughts and her hobbies. Embroidery, taught by Rubina, usually a creative release, had become a distraction, something to hold onto while everything else seemed to slip through her fingers.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang. The sharp sound broke through the silence and her thread paused mid-loop. Her heart leapt. Was it Hadi? For a split second, hope flared within her, uninvited and desperate. She quickly set the pillow cover aside and adjusted her dupatta over her head, as though tidying herself up could somehow change what waited on the other side.
She opened the door slightly, her breath caught halfway, but her heart sank. It was just a delivery guy, his face neutral and unfamiliar.
He handed over a plain brown packet. “Delivery for you mam,” he said, already turning to leave. Maira simply nodded, murmured a polite thank you, and gently shut the door.
The package was lightweight, but something about it made her palms feel heavy. The name on the label matched the apartment address. Curiosity laced with caution made her open it. Inside were fresh, newly laminated copies of her ID documents. Each neatly arranged in a plastic sleeve.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she slid them out. There it was, her name. Over and over again, on every document:
Maira Ali
She stared at it for a moment too long.
Ali. Not Ansari.
She remembered now, Hadi had mentioned it on his last visit. That he had asked someone to arrange her IDs, just in case she ever needed them. Practical, as always. Considerate, but distant.
But today, that small decision felt like a quiet verdict. Her eyes remained fixed on her name, reading it repeatedly, as though trying to understand something.
She let out a soft, sad smile. A resigned one, the kind that sits at the edge of grief but doesn’t quite fall into it.
So he hadn’t accepted her as his wife. Not really. Not legally. Not even in name. This was the proof, subtle, undeniable, and carefully packaged.
Maira chuckled, but there was no joy in it. It was the kind of laugh you give when you know better than to cry. She closed the door gently and leaned her back against it for a moment, eyes closed, steadying herself.
Why did I even expect anything different? she thought. What he did wasn’t wrong. She knew that. Even if he had asked her, she would’ve preferred her name to remain the same. She wasn’t ready to claim a title that hadn’t yet been given to her, not in heart, not in spirit.
Still… somewhere deep within, in the quietest corner of her heart, there was a dull ache. A small, invisible wound. Not because of the name, but because of everything it symbolized. The distance. The denial. The uncertainty of what they were, what she was to him.
But she didn’t let that ache win. She shrugged it off like an old shawl, worn but familiar, and returned to the couch. She picked up the half-stitched pillow cover again and ran her fingers over the thread. The needle found its path, and she resumed sewing.
One stitch at a time. One breath at a time. Trying to lose herself in the rhythm, trying to forget everything that threatened to steal away the little peace she was trying so hard to hold on to.
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