Everyone used to say that this girl must have been created by God in His spare time. She was not only beautiful, but also full of grace and good character. No human is perfect, of course, but some people are blessed with such extraordinary qualities that they stand out among the rest.
My name is Grace, and people say I live up to my name—I am graceful, inside and out. That’s what they say, not me. Still, I’ve always felt unfortunate because I lost the use of one hand, and life is not easy to manage with one hand alone. I wasn't born this way—I had healthy limbs like everyone else. But fate turned me from whole to incomplete, from able to disabled. Perhaps you can imagine what it feels like to live with a disability—the emotional toll, the shattered self-image. When people look at someone like me with pity in their eyes, the heartache is unbearable. Still, I’m thankful that I found a kind life partner—otherwise, who knows what might’ve become of me?
Let me tell you how it happened.
It all began when I was in seventh grade, and we lived in a small town. My cousin Emily lived with us. Her parents had passed away in a car accident, and my father brought her to live with us after that. She was only thirteen or fourteen when they died and was in eighth grade at the time. Emily was very beautiful—our entire family was known for our good looks. We went to school together every day. When Emily moved on to ninth grade and I entered sixth, something happened that changed her life forever.
Emily had always carried a quiet sadness. After school, she would do all the house chores because my mother barely lifted a finger. I was still a child, more interested in games than housework. Every evening, I’d go out to play with my friends in the street. My parents often warned me, saying, “You’re growing up now, don’t go out so much,” but I never listened. All the girls from the neighborhood used to gather and draw lines on the road to play tag. Sometimes, even the local boys would watch us play.
One day, Liam, a boy from our neighborhood, handed me a letter and said, “Give this to your cousin Emily. She asked me for help with homework.” Liam’s cousin Sophie was in Emily’s class, so I assumed the note was something harmless. Liam was staying at his uncle’s house nearby for his studies.
I gave the letter to Emily, who was making tea in the kitchen. As she read it, her face turned red. She silently tossed it into the stove, and the paper turned to ash. I had no idea what Liam had written. Emily looked at me and said, “Please don’t tell anyone about this. Uncle and Aunt will think badly of me, and they’ll take me out of school.” I adored her—she always looked after me—so I agreed to keep her secret.
After that, Liam sometimes followed us on our way to school, but Emily never looked back at him, nor did she speak to him. Still, she kept reminding me, “Don’t tell anyone about any of this, or Uncle will stop me from studying.” Emily loved her studies more than anything and didn’t want anything to ruin that. But Liam wouldn’t back off. Whenever he saw me alone in the street, he would give me another letter to pass to Emily.
She never responded to his letters. Not once. But Liam kept sending them through me for six months. And then, one day, everything changed.
My father caught Liam handing me a letter. Liam ran away, but my father grabbed me and snatched the note from my hand. As soon as he read it, his face darkened, and rage flashed in his eyes. He stormed into Emily’s room and started yelling at her. She began to cry, pleading, “Uncle, I swear I’ve never even spoken to that boy. I’ve never replied to any of his letters.”
“Then why didn’t you tell us?” my father roared. “I was afraid,” Emily sobbed, “that you’d stop me from going to school.” She begged and cried, pleading not to be pulled out of school. She kept apologizing for something she had never done. But my father didn’t listen. He pulled her out of school the very next day.
He also slapped me hard and warned me never to step outside again. But I didn’t care about the slap—I couldn’t stop thinking about how harshly Emily had been punished. All she ever did was burn those letters. She had done nothing wrong.
Emily only had two weeks left until her final exams. She folded her hands, begging to be allowed to sit for them. But my father didn’t budge. And just like that, Emily’s education ended.
That was a powerful lesson for me. My father even began the process of selling our house after that. He wanted to leave the neighborhood immediately. We moved into my grandmother’s place in another part of town. I lost all my friends, and it broke my heart.
The day we were packing up and moving, Liam approached me and asked, “Are you all leaving? Why?” I didn’t respond. I turned my face away and walked off.
And just like that, we were gone.
One day, while Father had gone to the village, I visited an old friend in our former neighborhood. There, I ran into Aleem. I told him we were now staying at Grandma's, and that Azra was deeply hurt. I explained how, because of him, everyone had turned against her and treated her harshly. I even gave him the address to Grandma’s house. But instead of showing remorse, he scoffed and said, “What’s the point now? Your cousin is a coward. I’m already engaged—to my own cousin. Besides, your family deceived me. You all disappeared without a word. I chose this engagement myself, and you can tell your cousin that. She never even replied to my letter—who did she think she was, anyway?”
His cold words stunned me. My eyes welled up. The pain hit me like a storm. That boy, because of whom our home was sold, who shattered Azra’s life and ended her education, had no regrets. Azra stopped eating and drinking. She suffered a punishment for a sin she never committed. She was deprived of her dreams and her dignity. Our relatives started to hate her. She had always been sensitive, the kind who carried the whole world in her heart. After losing her parents in a tragic accident, she had only one goal—to be educated, to stand on her own feet. But her future was snatched away overnight.
After that, Father didn’t allow me to leave the house. I went to school only with my brother and stayed confined otherwise. I, who once roamed freely like the wind, now sat in silence, worrying about Azra. What was her fault? She began to talk to herself. She looked lost, like a shadow of her old self. I was her only confidante. No one else cared. Father never spoke a word to her after the incident. Only Mother tried to speak to her gently, but even then, Father would scold her—“Don’t talk to that girl. She brought shame to this family. Disobey me, and I’ll throw you out too.”
Thankfully, he didn’t stop me from studying. I was in college, doing my FA. One day, after returning from college, I turned on the TV. My father hated when we watched Indian dramas or films. He only watched news or serious programs. As I sat watching, he came home and lost his temper. “You’ve become shameless—watching this nonsense?” I couldn’t hold back my tears. I thought to myself—what kind of father treats his daughters like this?
He used to say, “If my daughters don’t study, my life is worthless.” But now he opposed our education too. I couldn’t understand him. Why such anger over trivial things? My mother, helpless, always obeyed him. Yet, he still found reasons to fight. Once, before Eid, I went to my aunt’s house. I had taken permission for a week but returned in just three days, afraid he’d hurt Mom in my absence.
My aunt loved me dearly. She had two daughters and two sons. Two weeks later, she came to take me again. But my father scolded Mom—“Their son is grown. You let our daughter stay there? Don’t you know how the world works? I don’t even trust my own children—how can you trust others?”
Those words pierced my heart. I cried silently. Aunt left without a word. I fell sick from the stress. Why did Father think I was that kind of girl? I wasn’t. I valued his honor above everything. It was fate that I liked my cousin Shehzad, and he liked me too—but I never expressed it. I buried those feelings deep in my heart.
Father’s harsh words caused Aunt to stop visiting us. She even forbade Shehzad from coming over. Later, we received an invitation to my maternal cousin’s wedding. Being close family, we had to attend. Mom and Dad decided to go. I didn’t want to. I feared Father would scold me in public. But Mom insisted.
At the wedding, Marium—my cousin—dropped her purse. Shehzad picked it up. Marium asked me to retrieve it. I approached Shehzad, who was standing alone. He handed me the purse—and suddenly, held my hand. I was furious, despite my feelings for him. “Don’t act smart, Shehzad. Let go of my hand,” I said sharply. Just then, I saw my father standing ahead. My mother was beside him, staring at me in disbelief.
He held in his anger until we returned. But once home, he unleashed his rage. He hurled insults—and then, something I’ll never forget—he pressed my hand against the burning stove. He wouldn’t let go. I screamed in agony. My mother finally rescued me, but by then, my fingers were scorched. They curled into themselves, leaving my hand disabled. Even today, I bear those burn marks—a reminder of his wrath.
This is the story of a father who chose his pride over his children’s well-being. Had he used gentler ways to guide us—had he corrected us with kindness—I might not have grown to fear or resent him. After my BA, my disability kept me from finding a job. Our neighbor, a kind-hearted woman, proposed her son for me. She said, “So what if she’s disabled? She’s from an honorable family—and that’s what we value.”
Thanks to God, my husband, in-laws, and son have given me a life of peace. My husband knows why my hand is burned, but he never mentions it. He only gives me love and respect. My parents, too, are relieved that I found a happy home.
Azra, however, was married within the family. But her life isn’t happy. Her husband is difficult, and she barely gets by.
To all parents: Watch over your daughters, guide them—but do not cripple them, not physically, not emotionally. Harshness may protect your pride, but it destroys their lives.
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