The Weight of Silence

Chapter 1

15. September, 1997
London, England

"I'm home!" I shout, my voice echoing through the empty hallway. The familiar smell of turmeric and cumin wraps around me, warm and comforting, mixing with the cool autumn air that still clings to my jacket. Home.

"Where have you been?" My mom's voice cuts through the silence, sharp and demanding. She's standing at the counter, chopping carrots with a speed that seems almost too practiced. Her scarf hangs loosely around her neck, and her lips are pressed into that tight line—the one that always spells trouble.

"I was at Nali's café with Nadiira," I say, trying to sound casual as I drop my bag on the dining table.

"Nali's? The one Abobakar owns?" Her eyebrow arches, and I can almost feel the accusation in the air. She doesn't need to say more; her tone says it all.

"Yes," I mutter, sinking into a chair. My fingers automatically reach for a Turkish Delight from the bowl on the table.

From the corner of my eye, I see her hands tighten on the knife, the rhythmic chopping turning into angry, forceful strikes. I brace myself for the explosion.

"You know what?" she snaps, slamming the knife down with a clatter that makes me flinch. Her voice rises, each word sharp with frustration. "You're sixteen, Adma, and I'm not your servant! Do you know how hard I work to keep this house running? And you—what? You're out drinking coffee all day?"

I sigh, letting my hands fall onto the table.

"I work too. I help. You just don't see it."

She scoffs, muttering something in Sicilian under her breath.

"Work? Help? You don't even clean your room, let alone this house."

I bite my lip, holding back the retort that's itching to escape. What's the point? She doesn't want to hear it. Instead, I push my chair back and stand up.

"Fine. What do you need me to do?"

"Nothing," she snaps, turning back to the counter. "I'll do it all myself, like always."

The rest of dinner is quiet, except for Malik's occasional giggles. My little brother, with his cheeks stuffed full of rice, grins like he's in on some secret.

"When are you going to get a boyfriend, Adma?" he blurts out, shattering the silence like a hammer on glass.

I nearly choke on my water, and Sahmir, my older brother, glares at him like he's just committed a crime.

"Never," he says firmly, making it clear there's no room for discussion.

I smirk, leaning back in my chair.

"How do you know? Maybe I already have one."

Sahmir's head snaps toward me, his eyes narrowing. "What?"

I burst into laughter, shaking my head. "Oh my gosh, you're so dramatic."

Our mother cuts in before the teasing can go any further.

"Eat your food," she says, her voice final. The table falls silent again, but I can't help but smile a little.

Later that night, I'm curled up in bed, binge-watching Mr. Bean on ITV. The only light in the room comes from the glow of the screen, casting long shadows on the walls. I'm halfway through an episode when the door slams open, and my mom storms in.

"Why are you not changed?" she demands, hands on her hips.

"Changed for what?" I ask, sitting up, confused.