Freedom, they called it. Liberation. A fresh chapter. Words that once shimmered in my imagination now felt hollow, like confetti tossed in a storm. In the early days after the divorce, I told myself I was finally living. I moved through my new flat with an air of independence, hung mirrors and art the way I pleased, poured wine without explaining to anyone. I came and went as I wished. No curfews. No questions.
But silence has a way of stretching. Of creeping into the corners and clinging to the walls.
The first few weekends were a blur of outings—rooftop lounges, late dinners, a few too many cocktails with old colleagues and newer friends. Men noticed me. Some even approached. They smiled the same way they had back when I was just emerging, blooming into myself. But now… something had changed.
We flirted, yes. Bought my drinks, whispered compliments laced with intention. But our eyes didn't linger. None of us called the next day. Not really. I was stunning, they said. A catch. A goddess. But after one or two nights, they drifted. There was always another beautiful woman. Another distraction.
One night, after putting the children to sleep, I sat on the balcony and looked up at the stars. The city buzzed around me, full of life and lights. But inside, I was empty.
I thought of Yona—his warm voice, his patient hands, the quiet way he loved me even when I pushed him away.
I imagined him alone, maybe praying for me, maybe not.
I whispered, "I'm sorry," to the darkness.
But the night gave no reply. Only silence. And regret.
I tried not to care. I buried myself in work—first to distract myself, then to feel useful, then because there was simply nowhere else to go. I picked up new projects, volunteered for extra shifts, stayed late until the cleaners had passed by my office twice. The glow of my screen became me only constant companion. I told myself I was building something—respect, a name, a future for Subira.
Subira.
The thought of my daughter still twisted something inside my chest. They had adjusted, on the surface. I made sure my weekends were reserved for me, planned little outings, cooked special meals. But the girl was quieter now. Still sweet, still gentle—but watchful. Sometimes she'd look at me with those wide, dark eyes, like she was trying to understand something I wouldn't say out loud.
Sometimes I caught myself wondering if Yona had ever looked like that too.
He had stopped calling after the hospital scare. After the divorce papers were final. No texts. No messages. Just silence. A clean cut. Or so it seemed.
Then the message came.
I was in the middle of replying to a late-night work e-mail when the notification buzzed.
"Yona has passed away. We thought you should know. – Aunt Rahma."
The words didn't register at first. I blinked. Read them again. Then again. The room stayed still, eerily still. My fingers hovered above the keyboard, stiff. My breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat. I didn't scream. Didn't cry.
I just stared.
A thousand things rushed through me, all tangled—memories of his quiet smile, the way he used to warm up Subira's milk without my asking, how he'd look at me when I wasn't even trying. The way he'd gone silent. The way I'd turned my back.
The guilt didn't arrive in a scream. It crept in like a fog. Cold. Damp. Slow.
And yet, when I stood before my bathroom mirror that night, brushing my teeth like it was just another day, I told myself:
You made your choice. You're not the villain. You needed to breathe. He let go too easily. You warned him. You warned him…
I buried my guilt beneath layers of logic. Of justifications. I wore them like perfume. Strong. Present. But never quite covering the ache.
Weeks passed. Subira returned to school. Life ticked on. People stopped asking about Yona. The world did what it always does—it moved forward.
But at night, when the house was still, and the only sound was the humming of the fridge and the occasional stirring of Subira in her sleep, I would lie awake.
And sometimes, in that silence, I would whisper his name.
Softly. Like a prayer I wasn't ready to believe in.
At first, I believed I was coping. I buried myself in deadlines, presentations, and late-night strategy meetings. I even volunteered to travel, relishing the quiet of hotel rooms far from home, far from questions. I smiled at clients, led seminars with practised grace, and accepted compliments about my "resilience" with a nod that felt rehearsed. But somewhere between those high-rise conference rooms and solo flights, the stillness began to haunt me.
The children sensed it. Subira had stopped asking about Daddy. Zawadi, ever observant, started drawing pictures of our family—with only three figures instead of five. And Amani, still too young to fully understand, had begun waking in the middle of the night crying for someone he couldn't name.
It was subtle at first—I forgetting a school form here, missing a parent-teacher meeting there. I told myself it was fatigue. But the truth came one morning when I caught myself staring blankly at the computer screen, unable to recall what I was working on. The numbness that once protected me now made me feel like a stranger in me own skin.
I tried to escape it—brunches with friends, spa weekends, even a short-lived flirtation with a younger colleague who made me feel desired again. But it all faded too quickly. Conversations felt hollow. Laughter sounded distant. And the nights… the nights were the worst.
I would lie in bed with my phone on silent, scrolling through filtered lives and curated happiness. Everyone seemed to be moving forward. Yet I felt stuck. Not in grief, but in something worse—in restlessness, in an ache that had no clear shape or name.
And though I would never say it aloud, not even to myself, I had started to wonder: Had I mistaken freedom for fulfilment?
One Friday evening, I came home to find the house eerily quiet. No cartoons from the living room, no squabbles over homework, no Amani's giggles echoing down the corridor. I called out their names—once, twice—before Zawadi appeared from the kitchen, arms folded, eyes sharp.
"Mum, you forgot again."
I blinked at her, still in my heels, phone buzzing in my hand. "Forgot what?"
She didn't answer. Just stepped aside so I could see the untouched dinner on the table, the packed overnight bags by the door. My chest tightened.
"The school trip?" she said. "You promised you'd drive us. It's too late now."
Subira stood behind her, silent. Amani peeked out from behind her legs, his thumb in his mouth, watching me like I was someone he didn't know anymore. And in that moment, I didn't blame them.
I muttered something about work, an emergency, last-minute chaos. But the words sounded weak even to me.
Zawadi didn't cry. She didn't raise her voice. She just turned around and walked back to her room, calm and cold like her father used to be when he was deeply disappointed.
I sat down on the couch, coat still on, handbag slipping from my shoulder. The silence around me was deafening.
It had crept in so slowly—the distance between me and them—that I hadn't noticed when it became a wall. I had promised myself this would be better. That I could do both—be free and be whole. But somewhere along the line, I had lost sight of what I was fighting for.
Later that night, I stood outside their bedrooms, listening to their breathing. Subira had left her lamp on, her sketchbook open on the desk. Another family drawing—this time, I wasn't in it either.
I closed the door gently.
Maybe I had broken more than just a marriage.
The next morning, I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed. I stared at the ceiling, replaying every little moment from the night before—their faces, the disappointment, the growing space between us.
I used to find comfort in routine. The meetings, the calls, the endless to-do lists. But lately, even the noise at work couldn't drown out the ache. I caught myself drifting in boardrooms, zoning out during presentations, wondering if Amani still liked dinosaurs or if Subira had finally finished her storybook.
It was at lunch that Saida cornered me in the staff cafeteria. She was one of the few who hadn't joined the whispering chorus behind my back when things fell apart.
"You're fading, Neema," she said bluntly, pushing her plate away. "You walk like someone carrying glass. One wrong move, and it'll all shatter."
I let out a humourless laugh. "I'm fine, Saida. Just tired."
"No. You're not tired. You're empty."
That hit harder than I expected. She looked at me with those calm, unflinching eyes, and I couldn't hold her gaze. I stirred my coffee instead, watching the cream swirl.
"Why don't you let them in?" she asked. "Your children. Your grief. You act like Yona never mattered."
I felt my jaw tighten. "Don't."
"He did matter," she said softly. "And you loved him. Whatever happened, don't erase that part of your life. And don't make your kids pay for your silence."
I sat there, stunned. I hadn't cried since the funeral. Not even when Amani asked if heaven had a phone so he could tell Daddy about his new toy. But Saida's words cracked something loose.
I left the cafeteria before she could see the tears.
That evening, I stood outside their bedroom door, heart pounding like I was about to face strangers. The soft murmur of cartoons drifted through the crack—something cheerful, far removed from the weight I carried.
I knocked gently and stepped inside.
Subira looked up from her colouring book, cautious. Amani was curled up with his blanket, chewing the corner like he used to when he was a toddler. Zawadi didn't even look at me—just kept flicking through the channels with a remote too big for his little hands.
"Hey," I said, trying to sound lighter than I felt. "Mind if I join you?"
Silence.
I sat on the edge of the bed anyway, careful not to disrupt their space. I reached for a crayon and picked up a blank page from the floor. "Maybe you can teach me how to colour again, Subira. I'm probably very bad at it now."
She didn't smile. But she slid the blue crayon toward me without a word.
We sat like that for a while. Quiet. Uneasy. I drew a wobbly house and a lopsided sun. Amani glanced at it and giggled.
"That sun's sad," he whispered.
"Maybe it is," I replied, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.
Zawadi finally looked at me. "Why didn't you come home last weekend?"
The question landed hard. I hesitated.
"I… I got caught up with work," I lied.
He nodded, but I could see it—he didn't believe me. I had always promised not to lie to them. And now I was just like everyone else who broke promises and vanished.
"I'll do better," I said softly.
But they didn't answer. Not with words. Not with trust. Not yet.
When I finally left their room, I closed the door gently and leaned against it, breath shaking. They were slipping through my fingers. And I was running out of excuses.