"You walked into the lion's den, sweetheart," he whispered, stepping closer. "And lions don't let go so easily."
He looked down at her leg, at her trembling hands, and the fear in her eyes.
"A beautiful young girl like you," he chuckled, "shouldn't...
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Ammijaan, however, was not one to keep silent. She fussed around the house, as usual, knitting baby clothes with a frown that was cursing on me.
I watched her from the doorway, unsure how to even begin the conversation. She wasn't blind, but she was older, wiser, and full of hope.
"Those are beautiful," I said, breaking the silence. "But I think Abid's a little too old for them now."
Her gaze softened, but she didn't meet my eyes. "They're not for Abid. I made them for your children. I had hoped... one day, you'd settle down. But my hopes were foolish, I see now."
I swallowed hard. The weight of her disappointment hit me more than I expected. I didn't know how to handle it.
But I wasn't giving up on her dreams.
"You don't need to give them away," I said softly, stepping closer. "I've found someone. I'm going to marry her."
She froze, the knitting needles halting in her hands. She turned to me, wide-eyed, and before she could say anything, her hand was on my head, as though checking for fever.
"Are you sick?" she asked softly, her voice laced with worry.
I gently removed her hand, my lips curling into a small smile. "No. I'm sure, Ammijaan. It's time. I'm going to marry."
She gasped, her eyes widening with shock. Then her face hardened, a sudden shift in her expression that I couldn't place. "Don't tell me it's Amara. Don't you dare."
"No," I said firmly, my eyes burning into hers. "It's Mishti."
The name hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken truths. Her expression softened again, and I saw something like relief flicker in her eyes.
"Mishti..." she whispered, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "I'm so happy for you, son. You've finally found the right one."
I blinked.
For a moment, I just stared at her—unsure if I had misheard, or if my mind was playing tricks.
"You’re… not angry?" I asked slowly, voice quieter than I intended. "I thought you’d—"
"Angry?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Why would I be angry that my son—my difficult, stubborn son—has finally fallen in love?"
My jaw tensed, unsure what to do with the flicker of hope rising in my chest.
"You’re not upset that she’s... different? That she doesn’t come from our world?"
She scoffed, shaking her head. “Sultan, when have I ever cared for such things? All I care ”
I didn’t know how to respond. Something between guilt and relief crept up my spine.
