RAHIM – The Morning After

The first light of morning slipped through the curtains like an unwelcome guest.

Nadia was still asleep beside me, breathing soft and even, one hand resting protectively over her stomach. The memory of last night clung to her skin — her soft gasps, the way her body had trembled and opened for me, the heat of spilling inside her. But in the daylight, the guilt hit like a sledgehammer.

I slipped out of bed quietly, pulled on a lungi and kurta, and left the bedroom door slightly ajar. The apartment already smelled of strong morning tea and paratha on the tawa. Sana was in the kitchen. I could hear the familiar rhythm: spoon stirring counterclockwise, the sizzle of dough, the faint medicinal scent of jasmine oil she rubbed into her scars every single morning.

I went to her first.

Sana stood at the counter, back to me, one hand brushing the edge for balance. Her shoulders were rigid — her scars must be burning worse than usual after a sleepless night. The jasmine oil was heavier than usual, like she had rubbed layer after layer to bury the pain.

"Sana," I said quietly.

She didn't turn around. The spoon stopped moving.

I stepped closer. "We need to talk. Before she wakes up."

She finally faced me. Her eyes were tired and red-rimmed, but dry. That small, polite hospital smile was already fixed on her face like armour. "What is there to talk about, Rahim? You did what you needed to do."

Her words cut deep. I reached for her hand. She let me take it, but her fingers stayed limp and cold.

"I still love you," I said, voice low and urgent. "Last night... it wasn't about replacing you. You are my first wife. My home. But the doctors said no more. The empty rooms... the way you look at those baby clothes every night... I couldn't watch us disappear. Nadia is only here to give us a child. Nothing more. She knows that."

Sana's laugh was short, bitter, and broken. "Doesn't change us? I heard everything, Rahim. Every sound. Every breath. Every creak of the bed. You were inside her. You finished inside her. While I sat in the next room pressing a pillow to the scars that took my babies."

Guilt burned like acid in my throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't think—"

"I heard you," she whispered, voice cracking. "I heard her moan your name."

Without another word, I walked to the living room, grabbed my phone, and called a contractor I knew well.

"Soundproof the walls between the two bedrooms," I said, voice rough. "As soon as possible. I don't care about the cost. Do it this week."

When I returned to the kitchen, Nadia had come out, guided by the sound of our voices. She stood near the table, cane in hand, wearing a simple pale pink salwar kameez, looking small and uncertain in the morning light. Her hair was still slightly messy from sleep.

Sana froze at the stove.

Nadia turned her face slightly toward her and spoke softly, voice trembling but sincere.

"Apa... I know this is painful for you. I'm not here to take your place. I'm not here to compete with you. I just want a child. If my presence hurts you, I can stay in a separate room. I can be invisible. I don't want to make your pain worse."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the ceiling fan seemed to slow down.

Nadia continued, almost pleading, "I'm scared too, Apa. Scared that you'll hate me. Scared that I'll always be the outsider. But I promise... I will never disrespect you in this house. I know I'm only here because of what you lost. I'm grateful. Truly."

Sana stared at her for a long moment, then turned back to the stove without a word, her hands shaking as she continued making breakfast.

I seated Nadia at the table. Sana served the food — golden paratha, steaming dal, fragrant chai for all three. She managed only a few bites before pushing her plate away.

"I need some air," she said quietly and started walking toward the balcony.

My hand caught her wrist gently but firmly. "Sana, sit. Please. Eat a little more. You barely touched anything."

Her eyes were pleading when they met mine. Guilty. I saw the woman who once felt our baby kick, the woman who wouldn't let go of my hand in the wreckage. She sat back down. She forced down three more bites of paratha while we ate in heavy silence.

Nadia ate neatly, thanking Sana softly after every bite. "It's delicious, Apa. The paratha is perfect."

The word "Apa" hung in the air like a blade wrapped in silk.

I looked at the two women sitting at my breakfast table — one carrying almost two years of scars and silence, the other carrying the fragile hope of a child I had poured into her body last night.

I was two men now.

And this was only the first morning of the rest of our lives.

Outside, the morning azaan floated through the open balcony door, calling the faithful to prayer. But inside this apartment, none of us felt like praying. We were all simply trying to survive the new silence that had settled over the table like thick Dhaka humidity.

A silence that would only grow heavier with every passing day.

Author's Note If this chapter made your heart feel heavy... welcome to the pain club.

Tell me in the comments:

How do you feel about Nadia's assurance to Sana? 

Do you think Sana will ever accept this arrangement? 

Who are you feeling the most sorry for right now?

Vote if this chapter hit you hard. 

Comment your thoughts — I read every single one. Next chapter tomorrow at 8:30 PM BDT.

Thank you for staying with this painful journey 🖤