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Chapter 104, Unspoken Words.
Last Updated:
2025-04-15 02:48:13
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The phone rang just as I was unpacking the last box in our new beach house. It was her, My mother in law, my stomach twisted, but I took a deep breath and answered. “Hello, how are you Khalto ,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice. The silence on the other end was heavy, charged. Then— “Dema.” Her voice was sharp, each syllable a blade. “Is it true?” I swallowed. “Is what true?” “Don’t play ignorant with me!” she snapped. “I just drove to the mansion to surprise you both, only to find out that no one lives there anymore! The security guard told me my son and his wife moved out. Without a word. Without consulting me.” I gripped the phone tighter. “We meant to tell you—” “Tell me?” She let out a bitter laugh. “After everything I did for you? That house was my vision. Every piece of furniture, every curtain—I chose them all. For you. And this is how you repay me? Sneaking away like thieves in the night?” My chest burned. “We didn’t sneak. We just… wanted something sm
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I wiped my hands on my apron, glancing around the living room one last time. Everything had to be perfect. The cushions were fluffed, the floors spotless, and the scent of lemon polish still lingered in the air. I had spent all morning scrubbing, rearranging, making sure not a single speck of dust dared to show itself. They have to see how well I take care of their son, I thought, smoothing down the fabric of my dress—a modest, elegant one I had picked specifically for today. I wanted to look put-together but not like I was trying too hard. Though, of course, I was trying too hard. The kitchen hummed with activity—the rich aroma of slow-cooked lamb and spices filled the air. I had practiced the recipe three times this week, tweaking the seasoning until it was just right. My mother-in-law was an excellent cook, and I needed her approval. Not just on the food—on everything. I adjusted the vase of fresh flowers on the dining table, then stepped back, second-guessing the arrangement
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My head is pounding, a dull, relentless ache pressing against my temples. The numbers on the screen blur together, and I blink hard, trying to force my eyes to focus. But the dizziness won’t let up—every time I stand, the room tilts slightly, like the ground beneath me is unsteady. "Dema, you look pale," Dalia says, frowning as she leans over my desk. "You should go home." I shake my head, immediately regretting it as the motion sends another wave of nausea through me. "I’m fine. Just need a minute." Karim crosses his arms, unconvinced. "You’re not fine. You’ve been zoning out all morning. Go rest." "I said I’m fine," I snap, sharper than I mean to. But I can’t afford to leave. There’s too much to do, and I don’t want to seem weak. Still, my body betrays me. My limbs feel heavy, my thoughts sluggish. When break time finally comes, I slump in my chair, pressing my fingers to my forehead. A familiar presence steps beside me. I look up and find out it's Rami. "You’re still
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The two pink lines stare back at me, undeniable. My breath stops. My fingers tighten around the plastic stick, the reality of it crashing into me like a wave. Pregnant. The word echoes in my head, over and over, but it doesn’t feel real yet. I don’t know how long I stand there, frozen, before I finally force myself to move. The door creaks as I open it, my legs unsteady—not just from the dizziness now, but from the weight of what I’m holding. My mother-in-law turns the second I step out, her eyes locking onto the test in my hand. For a heartbeat, there’s silence. Then her face lights up."Oh, Dema!" She rushes forward before I can react, her arms wrapping around me in a tight embrace. "Mabrouk! This is wonderful news!" I stiffen, shocked by the sudden affection. She’s never hugged me like this before—never kissed my cheeks in quick, happy succession the way she’s doing now. Her joy is so bright, so immediate, that it almost knocks me back more than the test itself did. "I—"
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I sat on the edge of the couch, my fingers twisting the hem of my sweater, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure it could be heard across the room. The clock on the wall ticked too slowly, each second stretching into an eternity. Where is he?I had fought for this moment—begged my mother in law not to say a word, insisted that I be the one to tell him. Somehow I had convinced her.She had given me that knowing look, the one that said she understood more than I wanted her to. But this wasn’t just about the news. It was about us. About what he had said that night, his voice so firm, so final: "I’m not ready for kids yet, Dema."The memory of those words made my stomach twist. Would he be angry? Scared? Would he look at me differently? The sound of the front door opening snapped me back to the present. My breath hitched as Rami stepped inside, his familiar frame filling the doorway. He looked tired, his work shirt slightly rumpled, but his face softened when he saw me. "I'm home," h
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The house is too quiet. Too empty. The silence presses against my ears, suffocating me. Rami left this morning without a word—just like last night. No goodbye, no kiss, not even a glance in my direction. It’s like I’ve become invisible to him. I press a hand to my stomach, still flat, still holding our secret. Our baby. But is it ours if he doesn’t want it? My mind races, spiraling into the worst possibilities. What if he’s angry? What if he blames me? What if he— No. I squeeze my eyes shut, but the thought forces its way in anyway. What if he tells me to get rid of it?My throat tightens. I could never. Not unless my life depended on it. But what if that’s what he wants? What if he looks at me with disgust and says, "We’re not ready," or worse—"I don’t want this."The fear twists deeper. What if this is the end? What if he looks at me, during this pregnancy, and decides… he doesn’t want me anymore? Would he ask for a divorce?The word slices through me. Would he really leave
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I stirred awake, the space beside me already cold. Blinking against the morning light, I turned my head and saw Rami buttoning his shirt, his back to me. "You're up early," I murmured, my voice still thick with sleep. He glanced over his shoulder, barely meeting my eyes. "Yeah. Got a lot to do today." I sat up, pulling the blanket around me. "What time did you get home last night?" "Late," he said, adjusting his cuff. "Didn’t want to wake you." I swallowed hard. That was the third time this week. "Rami… why are you ignoring me?" His hands stilled for a second before he reached for his jacket. "I’m not ignoring you. I’ve just been busy with work." A bitter laugh escaped me. "Do you really think I’m stupid?" He finally turned to face me, his expression guarded. "Dema—" "No," I cut him off, my voice sharp. "I know what’s going on. Ever since I told you I was pregnant, you’ve been pulling away. Don’t lie to me." His jaw tightened. "It’s got nothing to do with that."
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I took a deep breath, trying to push away all the stress, all the noise in my head. Right now, the only thing that mattered was the little life growing inside me. My baby. My fingers brushed over my stomach, still flat, still unchanged—but I knew. In there, something precious was beginning. My mother-in-law had insisted on taking me to the doctor today. She fussed over me like I was made of glass, her grip firm on my arm as we walked into the clinic. The doctor was kind, reassuring. "She's four weeks along. Good health. No problems so far." The words should have comforted me, and they did—mostly. But there was still that tiny, nagging fear, the one I refused to let take root. "Just keep coming for check-ups," the doctor had said. "Everything looks fine but we need to keep an eye on her."On the way home, my mother-in-law turned to me with that smile—the one that wasn’t really a request. "I’d love to have you over for lunch,"she said. "I’ll cook something special for you and the b
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I’m the worst husband on earth. I’ve come to terms with that fact, no I actually accepted it. It’s not just some fleeting thought anymore, not some dramatic exaggeration to wallow in self-pity. It’s the truth, carved into my bones, etched into every regret that keeps me awake at night. I know it now, with a certainty that aches worse than any wound. And the worst part? I’m used to this feeling. It’s familiar, like an old coat I’ve worn so long I’ve forgotten the weight of it. Before Dema, I was careless. No—worse than careless. I was cruel in the most effortless way, the kind of cruelty that doesn’t even recognize itself. I moved through the world like a proud hawk I was untouchable, unbothered by anything. I did what I wanted, went where I pleased, let people drift into my orbit just long enough to make them believe in something that was never real. I’d smile, I’d charm them , I’d let them hope I would let them dream and then, when the novelty wore off or the guilt prickled too sha
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My mom left today, and with her departure, the last barrier between Dema and me vanished. There was no more avoiding the elephant in the room—no more excuses, no more distractions. Dema had no choice but to talk to me now, and as much as I didn’t want to push her, I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine. I needed answers. I needed to know what I had done wrong, or else the cracks in our relationship would only deepen until there was nothing left to salvage. When I finally gathered the courage to approach her, to ask her why she was so distant, why the anger in her eyes never seemed to fade, things spiraled out of control almost immediately. The moment I opened my mouth, it was like stepping on a landmine. She brought up that night—the night of the commercial event. The night I made a reckless, selfish mistake by staying out late with a woman who wasn’t my wife. My stomach twisted at the memory, at the way I had tried to justify it instead of just owning up to my poor judgme
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The first few days after Dema gave birth, I told myself it was normal—the exhaustion, the mood swings, the distance. But the way she looked at me, or rather, didn’t look at me, made my chest tighten with something uneasy. I tried to approach her one evening as she sat by the window, the dim light casting shadows over her tired face. The baby was finally asleep, and I thought maybe now she’d let me in, even just a little. “Dema,” I said softly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “How are you feeling?” She didn’t turn. Just stiffened under my touch before shrugging me off. “I’m fine.” The words were ice. I swallowed, forcing a smile she couldn’t see. “You’ve been quiet. I just… I want to make sure you’re okay.” A pause. Then a sigh, heavy with something unspoken. “I said I’m fine.” I hesitated, my hand hovering in the air before dropping to my side. “If you need anything—” “I don’t.” The finality in her voice cut deeper than I expected. I stood there, useless, before finally
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The day Dema’s water broke, I wasn’t there. Of course, I wasn’t. I had a packed schedule, meetings stacked back-to-back, and I was all the way on the other side of the city. When I got the call, my stomach dropped. I tried to wrap things up fast, but the discussion dragged on, every minute stretching like hours. By the time I finally got out, my hands were shaking as I fumbled with my keys. I jumped in the car, swearing under my breath as I mapped out every possible shortcut. But of course—just my luck—the traffic was a nightmare. Cars inched forward like they were moving through tar. I gripped the wheel, my foot tapping impatiently, heart pounding in my ears. "Come on, come on."When it became clear I wasn’t getting anywhere fast, I made a split-second decision. I pulled into the first rental parking lot I saw, threw the car into park, and bolted. I ran until my lungs burned, dodging pedestrians, my dress shoes slapping against the pavement. At the highway, I flagged down a taxi,I
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I had planned to take Dema to the commercial event and even picked out a beautiful dress for her as a surprise. I imagined how happy she’d be when she sees it and how lovely she’d look that evening. But when I got home, I found her lying on her back on the couch, exhausted. “I’m too tired,” she said weakly. When I told her about the event, she shook her head. “I can’t go. I’m exhausted—I don’t feel good, and I don’t look good enough to attend.” I left Dema alone at home and went to the event by myself. The evening dragged on—my team handled everything perfectly, leaving me with little to do. That’s when I spotted her.Her name is Jasmine . She's One of our former managers. She’d quit years ago when she got pregnant, choosing to raise her son over climbing the corporate ladder. Now here she was, gliding through the crowd like she’d never left. She smiled when she saw me. “Rami, how are you? It's been a long time.”We fell into easy conversation, reminiscing about her old days at
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Last night was one of the longest nights I’ve ever experienced. Dema had been throwing up on and off for hours, her discomfort keeping both of us awake well past midnight. Each time I heard her retching in the bathroom, my chest tightened with worry. I hovered near the door, offering water, a cold towel, anything to ease her nausea. At one point, I even suggested taking her to the emergency room, fearing she might be seriously ill, but she waved me off weakly. "It’s fine, really," she insisted, her voice hoarse from the strain."This is normal—just part of it." I didn’t understand how anything so exhausting could be normal but she assured me it was just her body adjusting. Still, I couldn’t shake the helplessness gnawing at me. Eventually, the vomiting subsided, but sleep remained out of reach for her. Restless and drained, she wandered out to the balcony, seeking the cool night air. I watched from the doorway as she settled into the wicker chair, her silhouette outlined by the p
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When Dema told me she was pregnant, I didn’t know what came over me. My chest tightened, my thoughts raced, and for a moment, I couldn’t even form a response. We had talked about having kids many times before—long conversations that stretched late into the night, filled with hopes, fears, and unspoken tensions. Every time, I told her I wasn’t ready, that the timing wasn’t right, that we needed to wait. And every time, she would look at me with those deep, pleading eyes, her voice soft but unwavering as she explained why she wanted this so badly. She had been an orphan, raised in a system that never gave her the warmth of a real family. She told me how she used to watch other children with their parents, aching for something she never had—a home, stability, unconditional love. To her, having a child wasn’t just a desire; it was a need, a way to fill a void that had been hollowed out by years of loneliness. She feared that if we kept dismissing the idea, she might never get the chance
