The tricycle ride to the hospital felt longer than any journey Amina had ever taken.
Her father leaned against her shoulder, breathing in shallow, uneven bursts. Usman sat on the other side, holding him upright, murmuring calm reassurances even though the panic in his eyes betrayed him.
Maryam sat in front, gripping the metal bar with white knuckles, whispering prayers so quietly only she could hear them.
The world blurred past. Cars. Shops. Morning traffic. Nothing felt real—only the weight of her father's body slumping heavier with every passing minute.
"Daddy, stay awake," Amina whispered, squeezing his hand.
He didn't respond.
Usman's voice dropped low. "Sir, talk to us. Don't close your eyes."
Her father managed a faint breath. "I'm… I'm listening."
But his voice was fading. Thinning.
Amina's heart fractured with every second.
When they reached the hospital, Usman practically carried him inside while Amina ran ahead, shouting for help.
"Nurse! Please—someone! He can't breathe well!"
Two nurses rushed forward with a wheelchair. They lifted her father into it and pushed him toward the emergency room.
Amina tried to follow, but one of the nurses blocked the entrance gently.
"Please wait outside."
Amina's chest tightened. "He's my father. Let me—"
"Just for now," the nurse said firmly. "We need space."
The doors closed.
Amina stared at them as if she could will them open. Fear suffocated her, thick and heavy like smoke.
Usman touched her shoulder. "Come sit."
She shook her head. "I can't sit."
Maryam stood a few feet away, hugging herself, rocking slightly. Tears slipped down her cheeks quietly, unlike her usual sharp cries. Real fear. Real grief.
For the first time in her life, Maryam didn't look like an enemy.
She looked like a woman unraveling.
Amina wrapped her arms around herself. She felt cold—bone-deep cold.
"Why now?" she whispered. "Why today?"
Usman moved closer. "It's not your fault."
Amina blinked, stung. "I didn't say it was."
"I know," he muttered. "Just… I can see the look in your eyes."
She looked away. Because he was right. Some part of her—the wounded, conditioned part—was already wondering whether she had triggered this. Whether the confrontation, the honesty, the arguing had weakened her father more than she realized.
Minutes passed.
Then thirty.
Then almost an hour.
Each second felt like being stretched thin.
Usman left to buy water and returned with three bottles. Amina barely touched hers. Maryam held hers without opening it, staring at the floor like it might swallow her whole.
Finally, a doctor stepped out, pulling off his gloves.
Amina rushed forward. "Doctor—how is he? Is he okay? Can we see him?"
Maryam stumbled after her. "Please, doctor. Please."
The doctor looked at them with the kind of expression that made Amina's stomach clench instantly.
"Are you his daughters?" he asked.
"I'm his daughter," Amina said. "She's his wife."
He exhaled. "Your father experienced a hypertensive crisis. His blood pressure was dangerously high, and he fainted due to the sudden spike."
Amina froze.
"How long has he been under stress?" the doctor asked.
Maryam's breath hitched.
Amina swallowed hard. "A long time."
The doctor nodded slowly, as if that explained everything.
"He's stable," the doctor continued. "But he needs rest, medication, and absolutely no emotional tension for now. His heart can't handle it."
Amina shut her eyes briefly, relief crashing into her so suddenly she swayed.
Maryam burst into tears—loud, desperate sobs. Not the controlled ones. Not the ones meant to manipulate. These were raw, terrified, broken.
Amina watched her.
For the first time, she saw Maryam not as the villain of her childhood, but as a woman clinging to a life she feared losing.
The doctor touched Amina's arm gently. "You can see him now. One at a time."
Amina hesitated, then nodded.
Inside the room, her father lay on the bed, oxygen tubes in his nose, IV drip hooked to his arm. His skin looked grayish, his lips pale.
Amina felt her throat close.
"Daddy?"
His eyes fluttered open. He gave her a weak smile.
"My daughter…"
She walked closer and sat beside him. She took his hand—cool, but warm enough to hold.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Amina frowned. "Why are you apologizing?"
"For everything. For not seeing. For not hearing. For thinking I had more time to fix things."
Amina shook her head, blinking back tears. "You're here. That's what matters."
He looked at her with a softness she hadn't seen since she was a child. "You've grown stronger than I ever imagined."
She squeezed his hand. "You taught me how to survive."
"I should have taught you how to live," he murmured.
Amina swallowed a sob. "Daddy… please get better."
He smiled faintly. "I will try."
There was a knock. Usman peeked inside. "Should I call her?" he asked quietly, meaning Maryam.
Amina nodded.
Maryam entered slowly, her eyes red, her hands trembling. She stood by the door as if stepping closer might shatter her completely.
Her father looked at her. "Maryam…"
She burst into tears again. "I thought I lost you."
He tried to raise his hand, but Amina gently guided it for him.
Maryam held his hand tightly, pressing it to her forehead.
"Forgive me," she whispered. "Please."
Amina looked away, giving them space.
The doctor returned after a few minutes. "He needs to rest. Only one person can stay tonight."
Amina and Maryam exchanged a look.
For the first time in years, there was no hostility in it.
Just shared fear.
"You should stay," Maryam said quietly. "He needs you."
Amina stared at her, surprised. "Are you sure?"
Maryam nodded slowly. "Yes. I'll go home and bring his things. I'll be back tomorrow."
Amina saw something new in her eyes—recognition. Acceptance. Maybe even understanding.
After Maryam left, Amina sat by her father's bedside as he drifted in and out of sleep. Usman stayed outside the ward, waiting for her, refusing to go home no matter how many times she told him.
Hours passed.
Night approached.
When Usman finally convinced her to step outside and breathe, she walked with him to the small bench near the ward entrance.
"How are you holding up?" he asked.
Amina took a long breath. "I'm scared."
He nodded. "That makes you human."
She looked at him. "I thought today would be about healing the family… but now everything feels fragile."
He leaned closer. "Sometimes healing breaks things before it fixes them."
Amina stared at her hands.
Usman continued softly, "Your father will be alright. He's strong."
"You don't know that."
He looked at her gently. "I know you. And I know you're going to fight for him with everything you have."
Amina swallowed. "I can't lose him."
"You won't."
She looked up at him. His eyes held no fear. Only certainty.
"You're not alone, Amina," he whispered. "Not anymore."
Amina's eyes warmed. Not with tears—those had already fallen. This was something else. Something gentler.
She whispered, "Thank you… for staying."
"I'll stay as long as you want."
Amina felt the truth settle inside her like a steady heartbeat.
Maybe her life was falling apart.
Maybe it was being rebuilt.
Maybe the two things were happening at the same time.
But as she sat there between loss and hope, between fear and strength, she realized something:
This time, she wasn't walking through it alone.