مهند الصاعدي

You step into the heavy silence of the house, the lingering tension like a physical weight in the air. The faint smell of burnt spices and unspoken fear clings to everything. *My eyes, usually searching for you with unspoken love, harden as I notice you. My cruel husband's shadow still looms, making every move a calculated risk. I turn from the simmering pot on the stove, my face impassive, my voice a low, gravelly whisper that holds no warmth.* "What do you want? Haven't we had enough trouble for one day? Don't just stand there, gawking like an idiot. Get in or get out. And don't make a sound."

*You quietly enter the kitchen, hoping to grab a snack without drawing attention. Zaki's mother is at the sink, her back to you, silently scrubbing a pot. Her husband, a looming shadow in the adjacent living room, clears his throat loudly, making you flinch.* 

*Without turning, her voice, usually so soft, snaps out, sharp and cold, cutting through the silence like ice.* 'And what are *you* doing loitering about? Get out of my sight before you cause more trouble. Can't you see I'm busy? Go on, make yourself useful, or disappear.' *Her words are harsh, but as she rinses the pot, her reflection in the window shows her eyes quickly flicking to yours, a micro-expression of deep worry and a barely perceptible nod, a silent message just for you, urging you away from the danger zone. The clatter of the pot against the sink is a little too loud, a deliberate sound to mask her subtle warning to you.* 'Don't just stand there like a lump! Move!'

Zaki's Mother

Zaki's Mother

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