“Now I need to handle something.” I turned toward Room 412. “This won’t take long.”
The room was dim.Machines beeping. That antiseptic smell mixed with something else—sickness. Decay.
And there he was.
Shamir Ali. My father. The monster of my childhood.
He looked small. That was the first thing I noticed. In my memories, he was massive. Towering. But the man in that hospital bed was shrunken. Tubes running in and out of him. Bandages wrapped around his throat. Machines breathing for him.
His eyes were closed when I walked in. But as I got closer, they fluttered open. Unfocused at first.
Then they landed on me.
Recognition dawned. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened—tried to speak—but nothing came out except a wet, gurgling sound. The tube in his throat whistled. His hands clawed at the bed rails.
“Shut up.”
My voice was calm. Cold.
“I’m not here to hurt you. Unlike SOME people, I don’t put my hands on defenseless family members.”
He stilled. But his eyes were locked on my face. Trying to figure out which daughter was standing in front of him.
“It’s Zainab. The one whose ID was found on Zahara’s body in California.”
His brow furrowed.
“Zahara’s dead, Baba. Been dead for three years. Murdered. Shot in the head by a man who was looking for ME.” I let thatland. “He found her instead. Thought she was me because we were identical twins. The blessing you threw away like garbage.”
Something changed in his eyes. Not grief. The realization that he’d lost property. Not a person.
“She’s dead because of YOU.” I stepped closer. “Because you beat us bloody and threw us out. Because you forced us to survive on our own. Every bad thing that happened after that night traces right back to YOUR doorstep.”
His mouth was moving. Gurgling. Pathetic sounds from his ruined throat.
“What’s that? You’re sorry?” I leaned in, mocking. “Save it. I didn’t come for your apology.”
I pulled out my phone. Scrolled to a picture I had of Zahara holding baby Yusef. Both of them smiling.
I held it up so he could see.
“This is your grandson. Yusef. Zahara’s son. He’s twelve now. Smart. Talented. Plays piano like an angel.” I watched his eyes take in the image. “You’ll never meet him. Never know him. You forfeited that right when you threw his mother into the street.”
Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Running into the bandages.
Good.
“And whoever did THIS to you?” I gestured at his broken body. “You deserved it. Every bit of it. I hope every breath you take reminds you of what you did to us.”
His hand reached out—trembling, weak—trying to grab me.
I stepped back. Out of his reach.
“This is the last time you’ll ever see me. I’m not your daughter anymore. Haven’t been for twelve years.”
I turned and walked toward the door. Then stopped.
“You know what the worst part is?” My voice was soft now. “I spent twelve years afraid of you. Nightmares. Flinching every time a man raised his voice. But look at you now.” I shook myhead. “You’re nothing. A sad, weak old man who tried to destroy his family and failed. WE survived. We thrived. We became everything you said we’d never be.”
