My mother eyed me with suspicion. I dared not look at her. Knowing that I was late from school five days consecutively, I could not offer an acceptable explanation. I knew she did not believe that I had extracurricular activities every day, which made me arrive home after 5pm; our school barely encouraged such things. However, realising she had little choice but to accept my explanation, she sighed, clearly unconvinced, but let it slide.

“Food is in the refrigerator. Warm it up in the microwave oven,” she said, while wearing her abaya. “I have to leave for the clinic now,” she added as she rushed for her evening shift at the local clinic.

Ever since we lost our dad in an accident, my mother became the sole breadwinner. She worked long shifts as a receptionist at a small private clinic. I was the eldest among the four siblings, and it fell upon my shoulders to ensure that they become responsible adults. Aside from helping my mother with the household chores, I regularly helped them with their studies. Thankfully, they were obedient children and never once did I have to raise my voice or force them to complete their homework.

But no matter how much we tried to move on, all of us missed Dad tremendously. He was a model father and husband. Always present to celebrate our smallest achievements and encouraged us even in our setbacks. Life was cruelly snatched away from him at a very young age of 40. It was a freak accident that killed him and we never recovered from the tragic incident.

However, mum managed to pull through for our sake and secured a job at the clinic. It was very tough on someone like her, who had never worked before in her life. But money was scarce, and there were four mouths to feed. Dad did not leave much behind. He never suspected he would die so young. We stopped dining out and had our meals mostly at home. We lived from hand to mouth.

That’s when it dawned on me that I had to do my part for the family. I knew mother would not agree, but I threw caution out the window and managed to get a part-time job at a small cafe. I started work three hours a day and so that I could manage to bring home money so that my siblings and I could go out for small treats, a cone of ice cream, a roadside chana chaat, or a cheap book from Urdu Bazar for each of us.

I am sure mum suspected something amiss. But she could not quite point a finger to the source of her suspicion. However, I was guilt-ridden and had to constantly reassure myself that contributing financially to the family was the least I could do to alleviate my mother’s burden.

One evening, while I was busy serving the customers, I was startled to see my mother standing opposite the counter, waiting to place an order. She appeared perplexed and shocked at the same time. I took her order and saw her returning to a table occupied by my siblings.

My supervisor, who saw my worried expression and who knew about my family situation, quickly volunteered to take over my duties. Slowly, I joined my family with what my mother had ordered.

Mother was teary-eyed. My siblings, too young to understand the full weight of the moment, looked confused, but followed her lead. She covered my hands with hers, her grip firm, yet gentle.

“You should have told me,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

I could not hold back my tears and hugged her. I had hidden this from her because I didn’t want to burden her with yet another worry. But in that moment, I realised that I should not have hidden such a big secret from her. She looked into my eyes as we conveyed silently that no matter how hard things got, we had each other.

And that was enough.

Published in Dawn, Young World, April 12th, 2025