Zainab had never seen the world, yet she felt its cruelty with every breath. Born blind into a family obsessed with beauty, she was marked as different from the start. Her sisters were admired for their sparkling eyes and graceful figures, while she was hidden away, treated as a burden, a secret that brought shame.
Her mother’s death when Zainab was five only deepened her isolation. Her father, once stern but fair, hardened into someone bitter and cruel. He stopped calling her by name, referring to her only as “that thing.” He refused to let her sit at the family table or greet guests, keeping her out of sight as though she were a curse.
For years, Zainab wondered if he might be right—if her blindness made her unworthy of love or dignity. On her twenty-first birthday, her father shattered what was left of her fragile hope. He entered her small room without warning, dropped a folded piece of cloth into her lap, and said in a flat, detached voice, “You’re getting married tomorrow.” Zainab’s heart stopped.
Married? To whom? She searched his tone for some kindness, some explanation, but found none.
His next words were sharper than knives. “He’s a beggar from the mosque. You are blind, he is poor.
A good match.” He didn’t ask her opinion. He didn’t care. The wedding was small and rushed, more like a transaction than a celebration.
She never saw her husband’s face, nor did anyone bother to describe it to her. Her father shoved her toward the man and commanded her to take his arm. Guests whispered behind their hands, mocking: “The blind girl and the beggar.” Afterward, her father thrust a small bag of clothes into her hands and said coldly, “Now you’re his problem,” before walking away without looking back.
Yusha brewed tea with gentle care. He draped his coat over her shoulders and lay by the door as though guarding her. He asked her what she liked, what she dreamed of, what foods made her smile.
No one had ever asked her these things. The days that followed began to soften her grief. Each morning, he guided her to the river, describing the sunrise, the colors of the birds, the way the wind moved through the trees.
At night, he sang and told her stories of distant lands and star-filled skies so vividly she felt she could almost see them. For the first time in years, Zainab laughed. Slowly, she began to love.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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