I was born and raised in a small village, in a family that lived with dignity, honesty, and the simple dreams of a middle-class life. My early years were peaceful. I studied well, my days passed quietly, and my world was filled with the love of my parents and brothers.
But the place we lived in was far from peaceful.
Our neighborhood was known for fights, arguments, and endless negativity. My parents were tired of the chaos. One day, without telling anyone, my father bought a piece of land far from the old house. Within just fifteen days, he built a new home—our new beginning.
Our new house stood in the calmest corner of the village.
To the left was the graveyard where our ancestors slept, behind us stood the madrasa and mosque, and in front, a wide road opened like a path to the future. It felt like Allah had gifted us a place of peace—far from noise, close to His house, and surrounded by serenity.
I was the youngest and the only daughter among four siblings—three elder brothers and me.
I was their heart, their joy, their "little sister."
I never had to lift a glass of water with my own hand—my mother fed me, my brothers fed me, even my father treated me like a delicate flower. I grew up wrapped in love.
Life felt perfect.