The sterile scent of the hospital hung in the air, thick and suffocating, as Murtasim paced back and forth in the cold, white corridor. His hands clenched into tight fists, his face pale and drawn with worry. Anwar sat in one of the plastic chairs, his face buried in his hands. Maa Begum, usually composed and strong, looked frail as she sat beside him, her expression filled with fear and helplessness.
Inside the room, Meerab lay unconscious, her frail body hooked up to machines that beeped rhythmically. The sight of her lying there, so still, so fragile, sent a wave of fear crashing through Murtasim’s chest. His heart pounded, and his palms were slick with sweat as he tried to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside him.
It had all happened so fast. One minute, Meerab had been in the garden, her hand protectively resting on her belly as she sipped tea. The next, she had collapsed, her face ashen, her body limp. Murtasim had rushed to her side, his heart lurching in his chest as he screamed for help, carrying her to the car with trembling hands as they sped to the hospital.
He had thought she was fine, that she just needed rest. But when the doctor had emerged from the examination room, his face grim, Murtasim had known it was far worse than he could have imagined.
The doctor’s words still echoed in his mind, each one like a dagger plunging deeper into his heart.
“Your wife’s pregnancy is highly complicated. Her body is not prepared for the strain. The stress and emotional trauma she’s been under lately have worsened the situation.”
Murtasim had felt his breath leave him in a painful rush.
“She’s at high risk of losing the baby. In fact, it’s highly unlikely she’ll carry to full term,” the doctor continued, his voice steady but grim. “And even if, by some miracle, she does make it to full term, her life will be in serious danger during childbirth. It’s unlikely that both she and the baby will survive.”
Murtasim had felt the floor drop from under him. His entire world—already shattered—had crumbled to dust. His knees had almost buckled, but he’d stood frozen, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to breathe.
The image of Meerab lying there in that hospital bed, her life and the life of their unborn child hanging by a thread, burned itself into his mind. He had caused her so much pain, so much suffering—and now this? He couldn’t bear the thought of her dying because of him.
Beside him, Anwar had paled, his face draining of all color as the doctor’s words took hold. His mind raced back to the past, to the day he had lost Nazia—Meerab’s mother—during childbirth. The memory of that loss, that indescribable pain, came rushing back with a vengeance. He had failed to protect Nazia then. Was he going to lose his daughter in the same way now?
Anwar’s voice had trembled when he finally spoke. “Doctor… what are the options?” he asked, his tone pleading, desperate for some kind of hope.
The doctor had sighed, his eyes filled with the kind of empathy that only comes with years of delivering heartbreaking news. “The best course of action,” he said slowly, “would be to terminate the pregnancy. We can schedule the procedure as soon as possible to ensure that Meerab is safe. The longer we wait, the higher the risk to her health.”
At those words, Murtasim had felt his heart clench painfully in his chest. Terminate the pregnancy. End the life of the baby he had dreamed of holding in his arms. It was a decision he never thought he’d have to face, but the idea of losing Meerab—of watching her slip away because of a decision he couldn’t make—was unbearable.
He loved the child growing inside her. But more than anything, he loved Meerab. And if it came down to a choice between them… he didn’t know how he could bear it, but he would choose her. He would always choose her.
