The Day the Sky Broke
Ayah's Pov
Past
The sunlight that afternoon did not simply enter our home—it settled into it, warm and golden, spilling across the living room like something alive. It clung to the curtains, softened the edges of the furniture, and rested gently on Maa's face, making her glow in a way I could never quite explain.
I remember sitting beside her, my legs tucked beneath me, my head leaning lightly against her arm. Her hand moved slowly over her belly—round now, full of quiet anticipation—and I watched it the way one watches something sacred.
"Maa," I said, my voice small but certain, "the world is so beautiful."
She hummed softly, the kind of hum that felt like a response even before words formed.
"I wish to travel all over the world," I continued, lifting my head to look at her, "with you... and Baba... and Kais."
Her lips curved instantly, warmth blooming in her eyes.
"And don't forget about this little one," she murmured, guiding my hand to her stomach.
I stilled.
There was something about that moment—something alive beneath my palm—that made my heart beat a little faster.
"Forget about what?" Baba's voice floated in from the staircase, rich and familiar.
I turned just as he stepped into the room, his presence filling it effortlessly. He moved toward us without pause, leaning down first to press a kiss to Maa's forehead... and then to mine, lingering just a second longer than necessary, as if memorizing me.
"Your daughter," Maa said, her smile soft but knowing, "was just telling me how she wants to travel the world with us."
"With us?" Baba repeated, his brows lifting as he turned to me.
I nodded eagerly, my excitement bubbling over.
"Really," he said, his voice lowering, playful now, "and where do you want to go, my—" he paused, tapping my nose lightly, "—Noor eini?"
My chest swelled at the name. I didn't fully understand it then, but I knew it meant I was something precious.
"Everywhere," I declared, unable to contain the joy in my voice. "I want to travel around the whole world!"
A quiet laugh escaped him, warm and indulgent.
"I know my Yaya dreams big," he said, settling down and pulling me effortlessly into his lap, his arms wrapping around me as I belonged there—and I did. "But where do you want to go first? Hmm?"
He pressed a kiss to my cheek. Then another. And another—until I squirmed in protest, laughing.
"Tell Baba," he coaxed, his voice soft against my hair, "and I will make it come true."
I shook my head immediately, my laughter fading into something more serious.
"No," I said.
He stilled.
"No?" he echoed, pulling back just enough to look at me properly, curiosity flickering in his eyes. "And why not?"
I could feel Maa watching us, her gaze gentle, full of something deep and unspoken.
"Because," I said slowly, carefully, as if this truth had to be held with both hands, "I know you're going to pray."
Baba blinked.
"And you'll ask Allah," I continued, my voice soft but unwavering, "so He's the one who makes wishes come true. Not you."
For a moment—just a moment—everything fell quiet.
Then Baba's expression broke, something bright and astonished filling his eyes.
"Oh, my—" he let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh, pulling me closer, his hand cradling the back of my head, "my Ayah..."
His voice softened.
"...you are such a brilliant child."
He kissed my forehead again, slower this time.
"Who taught you this, hmm?" he murmured, his fingers brushing lightly against my side before suddenly—without warning—he began to tickle me.
I gasped.
"Stop!" I burst into laughter, twisting in his arms, trying to escape him. "Maa taught me!"
"Oh, did she now?" he said, his voice teasing as he continued mercilessly.
"Maa!" I called out between giggles, reaching toward her for rescue.
But she only watched us, her laughter quiet, her eyes shining.
And that's what I remember most.
Not just the laughter—but the way it filled the house. The way it lingered in the walls, in the spaces between us, in the quiet moments that followed.
I remember how Baba never let Maa lift a single thing, how he moved around her as though she were something fragile and sacred all at once. The way he would carry her up the stairs—effortlessly, like it was the most natural thing in the world—while she protested softly, smiling despite herself.
I remember the mornings when I would wake to the sound of him in the kitchen, the soft clatter of dishes, the smell of breakfast already made before the sun had fully risen.
I remember the nights when Maa couldn't sleep, and he would sit beside her, massaging her legs gently, whispering something I could never quite hear.
And sometimes—when the house was quiet enough—I would hear him sing.
Soft lullabies, meant only for her.
As if the world outside did not exist.
As if this—us—was all that mattered.
And maybe it was.
Maybe, for a while...
We were everything to each other.
It was a rainy day, the kind where the sky doesn't simply cry—it breaks, heavy sheets of water striking the windows without pause, the sound constant and overwhelming, as if the world outside had been swallowed whole. The clouds hung low, dark and suffocating, and the thunder rolled again and again, not distant but close—too close—like something above us was restless.
Maa had been complaining about some pain. At first, it was small, barely noticeable—just a pause in her steps, a slight tightening in her expression, her hand resting over her belly as if to soothe something unseen. But it didn't go away. It lingered, deepened, and slowly began to take over her.
Baba noticed immediately. Of course he did. He took off from his work, not that he needed to, as he was his own boss, but he didn't leave her side. Not even for a moment. He stayed close, moving around her with a quiet urgency, watching her as if he looked away for even a second, something irreversible would happen. There was something restrained in him too—something tightly held beneath the surface, as if fear was not something he would allow himself to show.
My mother wasn't supposed to experience pain. It wasn't time. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. But within the blink of an eye, the situation got worse.
I could hear her scream from her room, and it didn't sound like her—it sounded like something was being torn out of her, something breaking from the inside. The sound cut through the house, through the walls, through me, sharp and unbearable. Baba was with her, his voice low and urgent, trying to stay in control, trying to keep everything from slipping through his hands.
"I'm here... I'm here..."
"Doctor, what's happening—why now?"
"Please—do something."
That last word didn't sound like him.
There were maids rushing back and forth, a midwife, a doctor, footsteps echoing too quickly, doors opening and closing without pause, voices overlapping into something chaotic and suffocating.
Kais and I were in our room, but it didn't feel like a room anymore. The walls didn't protect us. Everything reached us—the sound, the fear, the panic. The thunder outside only grew louder, cracking across the sky like something divine and terrifying, as if the heavens themselves were declaring a future we could not yet understand. Maa's screams only got louder and louder, each one sharper than the last, and the louder they became, the more something inside me unravelled.
"Kais, when do you think Maa is going to be alright? I am scared," I said, my voice trembling, my eyes blurry with tears I couldn't stop.
For a moment, he didn't answer, and that silence scared me more than anything. Then he pulled me closer. "Come here, Yaya," he said softly, wrapping his arms around me, holding me tighter than usual, like he was trying to hold me together even when he was falling apart himself. "Maa is going to be okay. We just need to pray." His voice was steady, but I could feel the effort behind it, the way he forced the words to sound certain.
So I did. That day, as a ten-year-old, I prayed the hardest I ever had. Not calmly, not the way Maa had taught me, but desperately, like I was begging, like if I didn't say the words fast enough, something would be taken away from me. I prayed for my mother to be relieved from this pain forever, not understanding what that truly meant, not realizing how dangerous that prayer was when spoken out of fear.
Then a thunder cracked so loudly it felt like the sky split open, and suddenly my mother's cries fell.
Just—stopped.
The silence that followed didn't feel like peace—it felt wrong, too sudden, too empty, like something had been taken with it. My heart was still racing when Kais and I heard it—a baby crying, small and fragile and alive—and in that moment, everything inside me lifted. Hope rushed back so quickly it almost hurt.
Both of us ran to my parents' room without thinking, without stopping, excitement replacing fear because the baby was here, and that had to mean everything was okay.
But the moment we stepped inside, something in me knew it wasn't.
The atmosphere of the room was not what we expected. There was no joy, no relief, no warmth—just a heavy, suffocating stillness, like the air itself was grieving. The midwife stood there holding the baby, but she wasn't smiling. Her face was still, her eyes distant, and when she looked at Kais and slowly shook her head, something inside me dropped even though I didn't understand why. Kais's hand tightened around mine instantly, so tight it hurt, so tight it would leave a bruise, but I didn't pull away.
My father wasn't looking at the baby. Not even once. He stood there like a man who had been emptied out, staring at my mother, his gaze fixed so intensely it felt like he was holding onto her with it, refusing to let go in the only way he still could—as if his whole world had shattered in front of his eyes, and he was still trying to understand how to exist in what remained.
She lay on the bed, still and quiet, her face calm in a way that felt wrong, too peaceful, like the pain had never touched her at all. For a second, I almost believed she was just sleeping.
Baba took a step forward, slow and uncertain, like even the ground beneath him no longer felt steady. His hand lifted slightly, hesitating in the air, as if he wanted to reach for her, to wake her, to prove to himself that this was not real—but he stopped before he could touch her. His fingers curled in on themselves instead, his hand falling back to his side, empty.
His lips parted, like he was about to say her name.
But nothing came out.
Then one of the maids stepped forward, her movements slow and careful, and she lifted a white cloth. For a brief second, Baba's gaze shifted—just enough to follow the motion—and something in his expression broke, not loudly, not visibly, but in a way that felt final.
He didn't stop her.
He didn't speak.
He just stood there—
and watched.
As she gently placed the cloth over Maa's face.
And in that moment, something inside me broke all at once, violently and completely, as the truth I had been too afraid to see finally forced itself into me.
That's when reality hit me.