04-10-2025, 09:04 PM
The legal notice wasn't a rock; it was a razor. It arrived at Asif's on a Tuesday in a thick cream-colored envelope. It severed the life Asif had so carefully controlled. He never saw it coming. Our tears and our shouting matches were normal to him, just part of the fabric of our marriage.
Even he might have thought that running to my mother's house for a few days was a familiar step as I had done it before after fights. But this? This was different. A formal petition for divorce, citing the Dissolution of '. Marriages Act with its cold and printed letters, a language he couldn’t bully. The shock on his face must have curdled into rage in seconds. I hadn't just walked out. I had made it official. I had invited the law and the eyes of strangers into the closed kingdom where he was the king and his kingdom was crumbling.
His first call wasn't to his lawyer. It was to my mother. Ammi told me later his voice was a low growl, full of jagged blame. He accused her of filling my head with poison, with modern, Western ideas that had no place in his home. He spat that she had brought shame on the entire family.
"You did this!" he roared into the phone. "You turned my own wife against me! I'll ruin her. I'll make sure everyone in the world knows what kind of daughter you raised!" Ammi's voice, she said, was quiet and steady as a rock. "My daughter is saving her own life, Asif. You should have thought of shame before you raised your hand to her." Then she hung up, leaving him shouting at a dead line.
Blocked by her, he aimed his fury at me. My phone began to tremble against the table, a constant, buzzing attack. It was a storm of calls and texts. One message would be a plea, his words dripping with false sweetness: "Nabila, please, think of Adnan. Don't do this to our family." The very next would be a threat, raw and possessive: "You are nothing without me. I will blacken your name until no one even looks at you. You are my wife and you should remember it."
But the real war began in the family WhatsApp groups. Asif posted a message dripping with sly piety, a picture of him and Adnan as his profile icon. "Please pray for my family during this difficult time. Sometimes outside forces can lead our loved ones astray. I pray that God guides my wife back to her duties as a mother and a '. woman." The screen lit up with questions. First, they were cautious emojis of praying hands. Then came the words. Aunts and cousins started calling Ammi, their voices thick with concern that felt more like pressure. The story was set: he was the wounded, patient husband. I was an ungrateful, wayward wife.
"This is exactly what we expected," my lawyer, Mrs.Sharma, said during our next call. Her voice was a calm island in my sea of panic. "He's using public shame to bully you into backing down. Do not reply. Block his number. Let him scream into the void. Save every single message you get from anyone else. Every threat he makes through them only weakens his case."
My hand shook as I found his name and pressed 'Block'. A strange, tight silence fell over my life. I knew it was the quiet before a bigger storm. A week later, Mrs. Sharma called again. "He's filed his response, Nabila. He's not contesting the divorce."
Relief washed over me so hard my knees went weak. I gripped the kitchen counter. "So it's over?"
"No," she said, her voice firm, pulling me back to reality. "The fight is just beginning. He agrees to the divorce on one condition: he gets sole, full custody of Adnan."
The world went silent. The air in my lungs turned to ice. It was about us, about our marriage. What did my son have to do with it? This was his punishment. He was going to take the very reason I breathed.
"He can't," I whispered, the words barely making a sound. "I'm his mother."
"He's going to try," she said, her voice grim. "He's claiming you're an unfit mother, emotionally unstable, and that you're poisoning Adnan against him. We are going to fight this with everything we have, Nabila. But it will be a long road."
In that moment, fear burned away and left something hard and sharp in its place. This was no longer about my escape. It was about saving my son.
The morning of the custody hearing, I chose my outfit like a soldier choosing armor. A bright kurti felt too cheerful, a dark suit too severe. I settled on a simple, plain blue cotton salwar suit with a veil. It said 'respectable'. It said 'stable'. It said 'good mother'. I wore no bright makeup, no jewelry except for tiny studs. I had to become the living, breathing proof that I was the calm, steady woman he was painting as a lunatic.
Adnan was warm and sleepy as I dressed him, his little arms wrapped tightly around my neck. I buried my face in his hair, breathing in his little-boy smell, trying to brand the memory onto my soul. A knot of pure terror tightened in my stomach. A stranger in a black robe could cut this bond with the stroke of a pen. “Mummy has a boring grown-up meeting today," I told him, forcing a smile that felt like cracking glass. "You're going to have a fun day with Nani, and tonight, we'll build the biggest Lego castle in the world." He nodded, his eyes still clouded with sleep, completely unaware. My heart splintered into a thousand pieces.
The family court building hummed with a low, miserable energy. People sat slumped on hard wooden benches, their eyes fixed on the scuffed floor, their private tragedies stuffed into worn leather briefcases. And then I saw him. Asif was across the hall, speaking quietly with a man in a sharp suit. He didn't look like a monster. He looked calm, respectable, his brow furrowed with handsome worry. He was playing the part of the concerned father I once believed him to be, and he was playing it perfectly. Our eyes met across the echoing hall. He gave me a slow, deliberate nod. It wasn't a greeting. It was a declaration: Here we are. Now I will destroy you.
Inside the courtroom, the air was thick and still. We sat at separate tables, an ocean of polished wood between us. When the judge called our case, a cold sweat broke out on my palms.
Asif's lawyer began, his voice as smooth as oil. He painted a picture of a desperate father, forced into this terrible position. "Your Honour, my client was left with no choice. The petitioner's erratic and unstable behavior has become a danger to his son's well-being. We have emails, texts, where she flies into rages. Mr. Siddiqui fears for his son's psychological safety. We are asking for an emergency order granting him temporary sole custody, to provide the boy a stable and peaceful home until this matter is resolved."
My desperate pleas, my cries for help, were being twisted into proof of my madness. Mrs.Sharma laid a hand on my arm, a silent command. Stay still. Breathe. Do not let them see a reaction.
When it was her turn, her voice was clear and sharp as glass. "Your Honour, what opposing counsel calls 'erratic behavior' is the predictable, human response of a woman subjected to years of emotional and financial abuse. The truth is, my client has been the sole stable parent in this child's life. She is a working professional and a devoted mother. The only instability in her life, and in her son's, comes directly from the man sitting across this room. To remove Adnan from his mother's care now would be to cause the very harm they claim to be preventing."
The courtroom felt airless, the silence thick with tension. Asif's lawyer, Mr. Khan, stood, holding a printout of my emails like a weapon. His voice was polished and sympathetic.
"Your Honour," he began, "my client, Mr. Asif Siddiqui, is not a villain. He is a husband and father who is deeply concerned for his son. The petitioner's recent conduct has become alarmingly erratic. I draw your attention to Exhibit A."
He slid a document towards the clerk. "An email from Ms. Nabila to my client. I quote: 'You will NOT dictate my life! I am a person, not your property! I will burn everything to the ground before I let you cage me and my son!'"
Mr. Khan paused, letting the violent imagery sink in. I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. He made me sound unhinged.
"And here," he continued, holding up another paper, "a text message sent to Mr. Siddiqui's sister: 'I can't live like this anymore. His rules are suffocating me.' Your Honour, these are not the words of a stable mother. This is a pattern of defiance and rebellion against the structure of a family. Mr. Siddiqui is worried this attitude, this contempt for traditional family values, will harm his son."
As he sat, Mrs.Sharma rose. Her calm was a shield. "Your Honour," she said, her voice steady and clear, "counsel speaks of defiance, but he conveniently omits the tyranny that is being defied. Let's provide the context for that email, shall we?"
She looked at Mr. Khan. "The 'cage' my client referred to was not a metaphor. It came in direct response to an email from Mr. Siddiqui, sent after she informed him she would be ten minutes late from work because of a project deadline. His email reads, and I quote: 'A wife's first duty is to be home when her husband expects her. Your job is not an excuse. If you are not home on time, do not be surprised to find the locks changed.'"
A murmur went through the small gallery. Mrs.Sharma pressed on. "This isn't about family values, Your Honour. It's about ownership. My client is a respected professional, but in her husband's eyes, her career is merely a tolerated hobby. He has referred to her work as 'her little project that keeps her busy'."
Asif stiffened at his table, his knuckles white where he gripped a pen.
"This narrow-mindedness extends to every part of her life," Mrs.Sharma continued. "He forbade her from having dinner with her own cousin because he 'didn't approve' of her cousin's lifestyle. He demanded she delete male colleagues from her social media accounts. This isn't a husband's concern; it is a controller's obsession."
Mrs.Sharma turned her gaze to Asif. "Mr. Siddiqui, isn't it true that you insisted Nabila share her phone's location with you at all times, and would call her repeatedly if she was anywhere but her office or her home?"
"Objection!" Mr. Khan shouted, standing abruptly. "My client's concern for his wife's safety is being twisted!"
"Is that what it was, Mr. Siddiqui? Concern?" Mrs. Sharma asked, her voice cutting through the objection. "Or was it possession?"
That was the word that broke him. The carefully maintained facade of the calm, traditional man crumbled into dust. He shot to his feet, his chair scbanging loudly against the floor.
"She is my wife!" he roared, pointing a shaking finger directly at me. "It is my right to know where she is! Her first duty is to her husband and her child! Her career, her friends, her family-they come second! Always!"
"Mr. Siddiqui, you will sit down," the judge commanded, her voice sharp.
He ignored her, his face flushed with rage. "She needs to be guided! She has forgotten her place! This Western nonsense of 'freedom' has poisoned her mind! Adnan is MY son! He will be raised in a proper home with proper values, not by a woman who thinks her job is more important than her family!"
"Mr. Siddiqui!" the judge's voice was a clap of thunder. "That is enough! You will be silent, or I will have you held in contempt of this court."
The threat finally penetrated his fury. He stood there, chest heaving, his eyes burning with a hateful glare. The entire courtroom had seen it now-the raw, suffocating possessiveness he tried to dress up as tradition. He collapsed back into his chair, utterly exposed.
Mrs. Sharma had not moved an inch. She didn't have to. Asif had just confessed to everything she had accused him of.
The judge stared down at Asif, her face a mask of profound disapproval. She made a decisive note on the file before her.
"Thank you, Mr. Siddiqui," she said, her voice cold as steel. "You have made the core issue of this custody matter abundantly clear."
It was in that moment she made her ruling, citing his "deeply concerning and proprietary attitude" and his "alarming display of temper" as direct evidence that placing a child in his sole care would be a significant risk. He had lost, not because of legal cunning, but because, for one crucial moment, he had allowed the world to see his true face.
"Thank you, counselors," she said, her voice cold. Then, looking at Asif's lawyer, she added, "Your client's evidence has been very illuminating."
Her ruling was swift. "The motion for temporary custody is denied. The evidence presented raises significant concerns about the father's conduct regarding the child's welfare. Temporary sole custody is granted to the mother. The father will enroll in and complete a twelve-week anger management course. All visitations with his son are to be supervised at a court-appointed facility until the course is complete and a full evaluation is submitted."
The gavel struck the wood with a sharp crack that echoed the breaking of Asif's plan. Air rushed back into my lungs, and I felt Mrs.Sharma's hand steadying me as my body sagged with relief.
Asif's face was white. His lawyer was hissing in his ear. As they turned to leave, his eyes found mine. The mask of the worried father was gone. There was only pure, uncut hatred. He had been publicly defeated, publicly shamed. And his glare promised me this war was far from over.
That night, a fragile peace settled over our home. Ammi made my favorite biryani, its warm spices filling the kitchen. As we ate, the knot in my stomach finally began to loosen. In his little bed, Adnan was sleeping safely. For now, he was mine.
"You did it," Ammi said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "You stood up to the beast."
"Mrs Sharma did it," I said, my smile feeling weak and watery. "She saw right through him."
"She aimed the weapon," Ammi countered, her eyes fierce. "But you loaded it, Nabila. You survived him long enough to fight back. Now, you must rest." She began clearing the plates, then paused at the door. "But be careful. A snake bites hardest after it has been wounded."
She was right. Having lost in the courtroom, Asif moved the battle to a field where he held all the power: the community. The tone on WhatsApp shifted overnight. He was no longer the piously suffering husband. He was now the tragic father, wronged by a cold, biased system.
"The courts are rigged against fathers," he posted. "My wife's lawyer used clever tricks and twisted my words. They painted my love for my son as anger. Now they have stolen my boy from me. Please pray that fathers get a fair chance. Please pray that my son comes home soon."
Sympathy poured in. His relatives called our relatives. His aunts descended on Ammi, their voices dripping with fake concern. "Think of the family's honor," one pleaded. "What will people say? A father needing a stranger to watch him with his own child? It is such a deep shame. You must make Nabila see reason." He had masterfully turned the court's protective order into my act of cruelty.
A week later, it was time for the first supervised visit. The facility was a cheerless room with pale yellow walls that smelled of disinfectant. The supervisor, a tired-looking woman named Sunita, led us into a room with a few worn-out toys and a faded couch. Asif was already waiting.
He stood up, his face a perfect mask of soft-spoken pain. He was no longer the beast from the courtroom. He was just a loving dad. He ignored me completely, his entire focus on Adnan, who was clutching my leg.
"Adnan, my boy," Asif cooed, kneeling down. He held out a shiny new toy car. "Look what Papa brought for you."
Handing my son over felt like tearing off a piece of my own body. I watched from the doorway as Asif played gently with him, speaking in a low, sweet voice, performing for Sunita, who sat taking notes in the corner. I walked out of the building feeling hollowed out.
An hour later, I was back to pick him up. Adnan was quiet, clutching the new toy. He kept his eyes on the floor. The car ride home was thick with a heavy silence.
"Did you have fun with Papa?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
He nodded, but his small face was serious. "Papa is very sad," he said, looking up at me, his big eyes filled with confusion. "He told me to tell you he's sorry. He said he wants our family to be home together again."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. This wasn't a visit. It was a mission. Asif had used that hour to plant his words, his poison, in our son's mind. He had turned my child into his little messenger, a tool in his war.
That night, as I was tucking him into bed, he looked up at me, his small face troubled. "Ammi," he whispered. "Is Papa a bad man?"
The court victory, the anger management classes, the custody order-it all felt like paper. The immense relief I had felt was gone, replaced by a cold dread. Asif had lost the battle in the hall of justice, but he had just opened a new front. The battlefield was my son's heart.
Even he might have thought that running to my mother's house for a few days was a familiar step as I had done it before after fights. But this? This was different. A formal petition for divorce, citing the Dissolution of '. Marriages Act with its cold and printed letters, a language he couldn’t bully. The shock on his face must have curdled into rage in seconds. I hadn't just walked out. I had made it official. I had invited the law and the eyes of strangers into the closed kingdom where he was the king and his kingdom was crumbling.
His first call wasn't to his lawyer. It was to my mother. Ammi told me later his voice was a low growl, full of jagged blame. He accused her of filling my head with poison, with modern, Western ideas that had no place in his home. He spat that she had brought shame on the entire family.
"You did this!" he roared into the phone. "You turned my own wife against me! I'll ruin her. I'll make sure everyone in the world knows what kind of daughter you raised!" Ammi's voice, she said, was quiet and steady as a rock. "My daughter is saving her own life, Asif. You should have thought of shame before you raised your hand to her." Then she hung up, leaving him shouting at a dead line.
Blocked by her, he aimed his fury at me. My phone began to tremble against the table, a constant, buzzing attack. It was a storm of calls and texts. One message would be a plea, his words dripping with false sweetness: "Nabila, please, think of Adnan. Don't do this to our family." The very next would be a threat, raw and possessive: "You are nothing without me. I will blacken your name until no one even looks at you. You are my wife and you should remember it."
But the real war began in the family WhatsApp groups. Asif posted a message dripping with sly piety, a picture of him and Adnan as his profile icon. "Please pray for my family during this difficult time. Sometimes outside forces can lead our loved ones astray. I pray that God guides my wife back to her duties as a mother and a '. woman." The screen lit up with questions. First, they were cautious emojis of praying hands. Then came the words. Aunts and cousins started calling Ammi, their voices thick with concern that felt more like pressure. The story was set: he was the wounded, patient husband. I was an ungrateful, wayward wife.
"This is exactly what we expected," my lawyer, Mrs.Sharma, said during our next call. Her voice was a calm island in my sea of panic. "He's using public shame to bully you into backing down. Do not reply. Block his number. Let him scream into the void. Save every single message you get from anyone else. Every threat he makes through them only weakens his case."
My hand shook as I found his name and pressed 'Block'. A strange, tight silence fell over my life. I knew it was the quiet before a bigger storm. A week later, Mrs. Sharma called again. "He's filed his response, Nabila. He's not contesting the divorce."
Relief washed over me so hard my knees went weak. I gripped the kitchen counter. "So it's over?"
"No," she said, her voice firm, pulling me back to reality. "The fight is just beginning. He agrees to the divorce on one condition: he gets sole, full custody of Adnan."
The world went silent. The air in my lungs turned to ice. It was about us, about our marriage. What did my son have to do with it? This was his punishment. He was going to take the very reason I breathed.
"He can't," I whispered, the words barely making a sound. "I'm his mother."
"He's going to try," she said, her voice grim. "He's claiming you're an unfit mother, emotionally unstable, and that you're poisoning Adnan against him. We are going to fight this with everything we have, Nabila. But it will be a long road."
In that moment, fear burned away and left something hard and sharp in its place. This was no longer about my escape. It was about saving my son.
The morning of the custody hearing, I chose my outfit like a soldier choosing armor. A bright kurti felt too cheerful, a dark suit too severe. I settled on a simple, plain blue cotton salwar suit with a veil. It said 'respectable'. It said 'stable'. It said 'good mother'. I wore no bright makeup, no jewelry except for tiny studs. I had to become the living, breathing proof that I was the calm, steady woman he was painting as a lunatic.
Adnan was warm and sleepy as I dressed him, his little arms wrapped tightly around my neck. I buried my face in his hair, breathing in his little-boy smell, trying to brand the memory onto my soul. A knot of pure terror tightened in my stomach. A stranger in a black robe could cut this bond with the stroke of a pen. “Mummy has a boring grown-up meeting today," I told him, forcing a smile that felt like cracking glass. "You're going to have a fun day with Nani, and tonight, we'll build the biggest Lego castle in the world." He nodded, his eyes still clouded with sleep, completely unaware. My heart splintered into a thousand pieces.
The family court building hummed with a low, miserable energy. People sat slumped on hard wooden benches, their eyes fixed on the scuffed floor, their private tragedies stuffed into worn leather briefcases. And then I saw him. Asif was across the hall, speaking quietly with a man in a sharp suit. He didn't look like a monster. He looked calm, respectable, his brow furrowed with handsome worry. He was playing the part of the concerned father I once believed him to be, and he was playing it perfectly. Our eyes met across the echoing hall. He gave me a slow, deliberate nod. It wasn't a greeting. It was a declaration: Here we are. Now I will destroy you.
Inside the courtroom, the air was thick and still. We sat at separate tables, an ocean of polished wood between us. When the judge called our case, a cold sweat broke out on my palms.
Asif's lawyer began, his voice as smooth as oil. He painted a picture of a desperate father, forced into this terrible position. "Your Honour, my client was left with no choice. The petitioner's erratic and unstable behavior has become a danger to his son's well-being. We have emails, texts, where she flies into rages. Mr. Siddiqui fears for his son's psychological safety. We are asking for an emergency order granting him temporary sole custody, to provide the boy a stable and peaceful home until this matter is resolved."
My desperate pleas, my cries for help, were being twisted into proof of my madness. Mrs.Sharma laid a hand on my arm, a silent command. Stay still. Breathe. Do not let them see a reaction.
When it was her turn, her voice was clear and sharp as glass. "Your Honour, what opposing counsel calls 'erratic behavior' is the predictable, human response of a woman subjected to years of emotional and financial abuse. The truth is, my client has been the sole stable parent in this child's life. She is a working professional and a devoted mother. The only instability in her life, and in her son's, comes directly from the man sitting across this room. To remove Adnan from his mother's care now would be to cause the very harm they claim to be preventing."
The courtroom felt airless, the silence thick with tension. Asif's lawyer, Mr. Khan, stood, holding a printout of my emails like a weapon. His voice was polished and sympathetic.
"Your Honour," he began, "my client, Mr. Asif Siddiqui, is not a villain. He is a husband and father who is deeply concerned for his son. The petitioner's recent conduct has become alarmingly erratic. I draw your attention to Exhibit A."
He slid a document towards the clerk. "An email from Ms. Nabila to my client. I quote: 'You will NOT dictate my life! I am a person, not your property! I will burn everything to the ground before I let you cage me and my son!'"
Mr. Khan paused, letting the violent imagery sink in. I felt a cold knot form in my stomach. He made me sound unhinged.
"And here," he continued, holding up another paper, "a text message sent to Mr. Siddiqui's sister: 'I can't live like this anymore. His rules are suffocating me.' Your Honour, these are not the words of a stable mother. This is a pattern of defiance and rebellion against the structure of a family. Mr. Siddiqui is worried this attitude, this contempt for traditional family values, will harm his son."
As he sat, Mrs.Sharma rose. Her calm was a shield. "Your Honour," she said, her voice steady and clear, "counsel speaks of defiance, but he conveniently omits the tyranny that is being defied. Let's provide the context for that email, shall we?"
She looked at Mr. Khan. "The 'cage' my client referred to was not a metaphor. It came in direct response to an email from Mr. Siddiqui, sent after she informed him she would be ten minutes late from work because of a project deadline. His email reads, and I quote: 'A wife's first duty is to be home when her husband expects her. Your job is not an excuse. If you are not home on time, do not be surprised to find the locks changed.'"
A murmur went through the small gallery. Mrs.Sharma pressed on. "This isn't about family values, Your Honour. It's about ownership. My client is a respected professional, but in her husband's eyes, her career is merely a tolerated hobby. He has referred to her work as 'her little project that keeps her busy'."
Asif stiffened at his table, his knuckles white where he gripped a pen.
"This narrow-mindedness extends to every part of her life," Mrs.Sharma continued. "He forbade her from having dinner with her own cousin because he 'didn't approve' of her cousin's lifestyle. He demanded she delete male colleagues from her social media accounts. This isn't a husband's concern; it is a controller's obsession."
Mrs.Sharma turned her gaze to Asif. "Mr. Siddiqui, isn't it true that you insisted Nabila share her phone's location with you at all times, and would call her repeatedly if she was anywhere but her office or her home?"
"Objection!" Mr. Khan shouted, standing abruptly. "My client's concern for his wife's safety is being twisted!"
"Is that what it was, Mr. Siddiqui? Concern?" Mrs. Sharma asked, her voice cutting through the objection. "Or was it possession?"
That was the word that broke him. The carefully maintained facade of the calm, traditional man crumbled into dust. He shot to his feet, his chair scbanging loudly against the floor.
"She is my wife!" he roared, pointing a shaking finger directly at me. "It is my right to know where she is! Her first duty is to her husband and her child! Her career, her friends, her family-they come second! Always!"
"Mr. Siddiqui, you will sit down," the judge commanded, her voice sharp.
He ignored her, his face flushed with rage. "She needs to be guided! She has forgotten her place! This Western nonsense of 'freedom' has poisoned her mind! Adnan is MY son! He will be raised in a proper home with proper values, not by a woman who thinks her job is more important than her family!"
"Mr. Siddiqui!" the judge's voice was a clap of thunder. "That is enough! You will be silent, or I will have you held in contempt of this court."
The threat finally penetrated his fury. He stood there, chest heaving, his eyes burning with a hateful glare. The entire courtroom had seen it now-the raw, suffocating possessiveness he tried to dress up as tradition. He collapsed back into his chair, utterly exposed.
Mrs. Sharma had not moved an inch. She didn't have to. Asif had just confessed to everything she had accused him of.
The judge stared down at Asif, her face a mask of profound disapproval. She made a decisive note on the file before her.
"Thank you, Mr. Siddiqui," she said, her voice cold as steel. "You have made the core issue of this custody matter abundantly clear."
It was in that moment she made her ruling, citing his "deeply concerning and proprietary attitude" and his "alarming display of temper" as direct evidence that placing a child in his sole care would be a significant risk. He had lost, not because of legal cunning, but because, for one crucial moment, he had allowed the world to see his true face.
"Thank you, counselors," she said, her voice cold. Then, looking at Asif's lawyer, she added, "Your client's evidence has been very illuminating."
Her ruling was swift. "The motion for temporary custody is denied. The evidence presented raises significant concerns about the father's conduct regarding the child's welfare. Temporary sole custody is granted to the mother. The father will enroll in and complete a twelve-week anger management course. All visitations with his son are to be supervised at a court-appointed facility until the course is complete and a full evaluation is submitted."
The gavel struck the wood with a sharp crack that echoed the breaking of Asif's plan. Air rushed back into my lungs, and I felt Mrs.Sharma's hand steadying me as my body sagged with relief.
Asif's face was white. His lawyer was hissing in his ear. As they turned to leave, his eyes found mine. The mask of the worried father was gone. There was only pure, uncut hatred. He had been publicly defeated, publicly shamed. And his glare promised me this war was far from over.
That night, a fragile peace settled over our home. Ammi made my favorite biryani, its warm spices filling the kitchen. As we ate, the knot in my stomach finally began to loosen. In his little bed, Adnan was sleeping safely. For now, he was mine.
"You did it," Ammi said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. "You stood up to the beast."
"Mrs Sharma did it," I said, my smile feeling weak and watery. "She saw right through him."
"She aimed the weapon," Ammi countered, her eyes fierce. "But you loaded it, Nabila. You survived him long enough to fight back. Now, you must rest." She began clearing the plates, then paused at the door. "But be careful. A snake bites hardest after it has been wounded."
She was right. Having lost in the courtroom, Asif moved the battle to a field where he held all the power: the community. The tone on WhatsApp shifted overnight. He was no longer the piously suffering husband. He was now the tragic father, wronged by a cold, biased system.
"The courts are rigged against fathers," he posted. "My wife's lawyer used clever tricks and twisted my words. They painted my love for my son as anger. Now they have stolen my boy from me. Please pray that fathers get a fair chance. Please pray that my son comes home soon."
Sympathy poured in. His relatives called our relatives. His aunts descended on Ammi, their voices dripping with fake concern. "Think of the family's honor," one pleaded. "What will people say? A father needing a stranger to watch him with his own child? It is such a deep shame. You must make Nabila see reason." He had masterfully turned the court's protective order into my act of cruelty.
A week later, it was time for the first supervised visit. The facility was a cheerless room with pale yellow walls that smelled of disinfectant. The supervisor, a tired-looking woman named Sunita, led us into a room with a few worn-out toys and a faded couch. Asif was already waiting.
He stood up, his face a perfect mask of soft-spoken pain. He was no longer the beast from the courtroom. He was just a loving dad. He ignored me completely, his entire focus on Adnan, who was clutching my leg.
"Adnan, my boy," Asif cooed, kneeling down. He held out a shiny new toy car. "Look what Papa brought for you."
Handing my son over felt like tearing off a piece of my own body. I watched from the doorway as Asif played gently with him, speaking in a low, sweet voice, performing for Sunita, who sat taking notes in the corner. I walked out of the building feeling hollowed out.
An hour later, I was back to pick him up. Adnan was quiet, clutching the new toy. He kept his eyes on the floor. The car ride home was thick with a heavy silence.
"Did you have fun with Papa?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light.
He nodded, but his small face was serious. "Papa is very sad," he said, looking up at me, his big eyes filled with confusion. "He told me to tell you he's sorry. He said he wants our family to be home together again."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. This wasn't a visit. It was a mission. Asif had used that hour to plant his words, his poison, in our son's mind. He had turned my child into his little messenger, a tool in his war.
That night, as I was tucking him into bed, he looked up at me, his small face troubled. "Ammi," he whispered. "Is Papa a bad man?"
The court victory, the anger management classes, the custody order-it all felt like paper. The immense relief I had felt was gone, replaced by a cold dread. Asif had lost the battle in the hall of justice, but he had just opened a new front. The battlefield was my son's heart.
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