Sibgha Rana
The house is quiet, but the air holds its breath. It always does when Waseem gets home. I stand in the kitchen, stirring lentils with shaking hands. On the windowsill, the basil plant droops again, leaves curling inward. I tell myself I’ll water it later.
The door opens and his voice immediately pierces the silence. “Where’s the food?”
“It’s almost ready.”
“Almost?” His voice rising, “How long do I have to wait for you to do anything right?”
I freeze, but won’t look at him, looking always makes it worse. My body tightens before my mind can catch up, as the sound of his steps draws closer.
“Don’t just stand there,” he says, grabbing my arm. His fingers dig into my skin, like he’s trying to claim something. “Why are you always so useless?”
The insults and slurs I used to flinch at have now become background noise, but this… this is different. I barely feel the pain of his grip, only the shock of how quickly it’s happened.
“Let go of me,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“You think you can just act like nothing matters?” he spits, his breath hot on my face.
I can’t breathe. I want to push him away, but my body is frozen. My mind knows this moment is different, but somehow my body reacts like it’s been waiting for it for years. His grip tightens, and the sting of his fingers on my skin shoots through my whole arm. “You make me sick,” he mutters.
I want to yell at him, but the words won’t matter. Nothing matters—he’s already angry. He steps back suddenly, letting go of my arm. It’s the first time his hands have found me like this, but somehow, I already know to brace for next time. I don’t move, not out of choice, but because it feels like if I do, I might shatter. At this point, being invisible might just be the only thing that can protect me.
“Oi haramzadi, say something!” he shouts, making me jump.
I take a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”
His face softens for just a second, like he’s satisfied. But I’ve been through enough to know that the relief is only temporary. He makes his way to the bathroom and the door slams behind him. And just like that, the house goes back to its usual silence. It’s a silence that feels like failure. I look down at my trembling hands. I’ve been living like this for so long. Trying to make everything perfect. Trying to make him happy.
But today, something’s different.
As I stand there, staring at the food I’m supposed to serve him, I feel something shift. It’s a quiet thought, so small I almost miss it.
This isn’t normal.
The thought lingers, almost too real to accept. I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that what he does, what he says, is just a part of marriage. That it’s normal. That he is my husband and I am to listen. At least that’s what good wives do. But love shouldn’t feel like fear. It shouldn’t make you flinch at footsteps or jump at a door opening.
***
We don’t talk about it in families like mine. We don’t talk about hurt if it happens inside the home. We don’t acknowledge bruises, whether they show up on the skin or not. Instead, we offer forced smiles at family events, pass dishes at dinner in silence heavy enough to choke on. We only talk about appearances: dinners plated perfectly, Eid photos, impending weddings. Always the question of what will people say? I matter, not just as someone’s wife, someone’s daughter-in-law, someone’s ‘responsibility.’ I matter because I am here. Because I blink and breathe and hurt and dream.
I don’t know what comes next, but at least I realise that this is not my fault. I will not let my story end in silence.
Not for the sake of appearances.
Not for the sake of “what will people say?”
For the first time, I choose myself.
And choosing starts small.
I turn off the stove. The lentils can wait.
I move to the windowsill. The basil sits where I left it, wilted and bruised from too many days without care. My hand hovers over the pot, the old instinct to serve first, to rush, to obey. This time, I don’t.
I fill a glass and pour. Slowly, the soil drinks. The plant doesn’t spring back, but it doesn’t need to. Healing takes time—even bruised leaves can find green again.
Behind me, water runs in the bathroom. He expects dinner. I don’t fulfill that expectation. Tonight, I will fulfill something else first.
It’s not defiance anyone else would notice. But I notice.
Just a plant. Just me.
Sibgha Rana, Year 11, 2025, Auburn Girls High School.