Najeem's childhood did not end gradually—it shattered in a single moment. At just fourteen years old, he stood at the doorway of his small home, his hands trembling as he held onto his father's arm. "Baba, please don't go…" he pleaded, his voice breaking under the weight of fear and desperation. His father pulled his hand away without meeting his eyes. "I have my reasons," he said coldly, as if leaving his family behind was a simple decision. "What about us?" Najeem cried out, his voice rising. "What about Ammi? Tamanna? Raziya?" But the man who was supposed to be his strength turned his back and walked away, closing the door behind him—not just on the house, but on their lives.
Silence filled the room like a storm after destruction. Najeem turned slowly toward his mother, who was sitting on the floor, tears streaming silently down her face. "Ammi…" he whispered, kneeling beside her. "What will we do now?" His mother looked at him with broken eyes but placed her trembling hand on his head. "You will do something… you are my strength now," she said, her voice weak but trusting. Najeem looked at his two younger sisters, who were clinging to each other in fear. In that moment, something changed inside him. The fear disappeared, replaced by a forced strength. "Don't cry," he said, his voice suddenly firm, almost unfamiliar even to himself. "I am here. I will take care of everything." That night, Najeem did not sleep as a child—he lay awake as a man burdened with responsibilities far beyond his age.