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Danish pov

It was a normal night, like always.

Seven-year-old Alana had gone to Izmir because Neymat was missing her so badly.

Meanwhile, sixteen-year-old Dawood was in her room. My innocent son—he’s grown up so fast, and his physical appearance is a sight for sore eyes.

He is blessed with good looks like every man in the Malik household, but my fragile child, due to his cognitive disorder, struggles to cope with people his age. By appearance, my son is a handsome sixteen-year-old teenager, but mentally, he's far behind. He still behaves like a five-year-old. And I feel useless—my money can’t even give my son a normal life. Allah knows where he found the strength when Taniya needed us.

Well, she still needs us. She’s not completely fine. That bastard Theodore gave her a whole new kind of torment to crush her mind and erase her memory. The doctor said it was a miracle that those drugs didn’t harm Alana—but only we know why they didn’t. Because he wanted to give his name to Alana.

We’ve come a long way in this journey that began with three broken people and a fragile newborn baby.

I was sitting on my bed when my focus was stolen by Taniya’s tearful face and hiccups.

I immediately walked to her. “Allah, Allah… what happened?” I thought. She was with Dawood—why was she crying like this?

But before I could shower her with questions, she hid herself in my chest.

I shivered at her sudden touch. With trembling hands, I caressed her head and rubbed her back.

“Why are you crying, Tani?” I asked softly.

“Da-Danish… will my son never live a happy life? Am I a bad mom?” she asked, tilting her face up and staring into my eyes—her blue, diamond-like eyes filled with tears.

“What happened, Tani? You’re the best mom any son could ever have,” I said, wiping her tears with shaking hands.

We both aren’t used to this kind of closeness. I know it sounds strange—our daughter will turn eight in a few months—yet I still can’t bring myself to touch her like a husband touches his wife.

I’m afraid. I don’t want to break her the way Shoaib and Theodore did.

How could I even think of her that way when she’s struggling with her mental health?

“He was crying, Danish. My Dawood was crying because his tutor hurt him. My son was shivering, saying he didn’t want to study anymore,” she cried, looking at me in pain.

“She must’ve scolded him. I’ll talk to her. I’ll tell her never to raise her voice at my son again,” I said, holding her face gently.

Sometimes I wonder—how can a mother love so selflessly? She’s battling her own trauma, yet the way she worries about Dawood makes it feel like she’s his biological mother.

“Promise me?” she pleaded like a desperate child. “Tell her my child is only grown in age—his mind is still like a five-year-old.”

I nodded, holding back my own tears.

Then unintentionally, my gaze fell on her cherry-plum lips, trembling as she tried to control her hiccups. I don’t know what got into me—I pressed my lips to hers.

My breath hitched, tasting her salty tears and rosy lips. I expected her to push me away or even slap me—but her response only fueled my haze of desire.

She gripped my hair and pulled me closer to her,

Like kissing me would erase her pain and fear.

I kissed her, pouring all my emotions into that moment. I even hated myself for doing it—but I couldn’t stop.