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This is a story from when I was in fourth grade. My name was Sarah, and my brother’s name was Adam. We were two siblings with a deep bond, always there for each other. Our childhood was filled with peace and joy under the loving care of our dear mother. Our home was a haven of happiness, her affection like blooming roses around us. But then, tragedy struck. Our mother fell ill and, after two agonizing months, passed away. She loved us dearly, and her loss left a void in our hearts. Our father also cherished us, but about two years later, he remarried.
Being young and naive, we were thrilled that day, thinking a new mother would bring back the warmth we missed. The new bride, dressed beautifully, seemed enchanting to us, like a character from a fairy tale. We fluttered around her like butterflies, excited and hopeful. Our father had explained to her that we were young and innocent, needing a mother’s love. At first, she showered us with affection, and we felt cared for. But as time passed, things changed. She gave birth to a son, and naturally, her attention shifted to him. Slowly, her behavior toward us grew cold. She became distant, almost a stranger. Adam and I felt confused and hurt, but we had nowhere else to go. We were forced to endure her growing indifference.
As years went by, she had two more sons, making three children of her own. The house echoed with their chatter, and we felt increasingly sidelined. She no longer needed us, but we still needed a family, a home. I grew older and more aware, taking on all the household chores she assigned me. I worked tirelessly from morning to night. Any spare moment was spent looking after her children, who were mischievous and often cruel. They’d hit me with a ball, push me during play, or even strike me, leaving me in pain. I had no time to study, and she ensured I was never idle. Her treatment became so harsh that visitors mistook me for a maid. Her three sons bossed me around, treating me like a servant. They’d kick or slap me over trivial matters, and I bore it all in silence.
Adam, now in ninth grade, saw this and suffered quietly. Meanwhile, I was pulled out of school, my education sacrificed to endless chores. He couldn’t bear watching me get scolded or hit for minor mistakes. I lived in constant fear, always on edge. One day, everything exploded. Adam came home from school to find me crying, being beaten by our stepbrothers. He tried to stop them, but they mocked him, saying, “She’s our servant, we’ll do what we want!” Our stepmother sided with her sons. Furious, Adam grabbed a stick they often used on me and, in a rage, struck her and the boys. She screamed and ran to the neighbors, complaining. That evening, when our father returned from work, she sobbed and exaggerated the incident, claiming Adam was a troublemaker who shouldn’t stay in the house.
Blinded by her words, our father believed her completely. He dragged Adam out of the room and beat him so severely that my brother fainted. As his sister, I couldn’t watch him suffer like this. I fell at my father’s feet, begging him to stop, fearing Adam would die. But he was consumed by anger, pushing me away and shouting, “Get out! There’s no place for a rebellious boy like him in my house!” Adam regained consciousness, pleading not to be thrown out, clinging to our father’s feet, begging not to be separated from me. But our father’s heart was hardened. He threw Adam out and locked the door, declaring it closed to him forever.
Our neighbor, Aunt Clara, lived next door. She had been our late mother’s close friend and understood our pain. After our mother’s death, she had distanced herself from our home. When she learned what happened, she took Adam in, saying, “Stay with us, you don’t need to go anywhere.” She had three daughters and a son, who welcomed him warmly. Adam stayed there for a week, but it wasn’t a permanent solution. One afternoon, while everyone was asleep, he packed his clothes and left for an unknown destination. I had slipped fifty rupees into his bag, sent through Aunt Clara’s daughter, not knowing he planned to leave. Adam boarded a bus and headed to an uncertain future.
In Peshawar, he wandered for a week, searching for work but finding none. Eventually, he started washing dishes at a small hotel in exchange for food. One day, fortune smiled on him. A kind-looking man named Mr. Khan came to the hotel. Adam, desperate, asked him for a job. At first, Mr. Khan brushed him off, but Adam persisted, following him. Annoyed but curious, Mr. Khan asked about his background. Adam shared his story and hometown. The man agreed to hire him if someone could vouch for him. Adam suggested asking his neighbors back home. Satisfied, Mr. Khan took him in and trained him to drive a truck. Adam called him “Uncle Khan” and worked diligently. Nine months later, he called our neighbor to let me know he was safe and working, promising to return once he saved enough. Hearing his voice brought me immense relief after months of worry.
Once, Uncle Khan had to deliver goods to a city near ours. Adam mentioned they’d pass through our town. On their return, instead of coming home, he went to Aunt Clara’s. She hugged him, tears streaming down her face, as they had feared he’d met with an accident. Adam shared his journey and introduced Uncle Khan, crediting him for his survival. When Uncle Khan learned the full story, he was furious, questioning how parents could treat their children so cruelly. Adam gave Aunt Clara some gifts for me, but when she came to our house, my stepmother forbade me from meeting him, threatening to kick me out if I did. Aunt Clara pleaded gently, and after much reluctance, I was allowed to see Adam briefly.
Seeing him, I ran into his arms, sobbing. We hadn’t met in so long, and our tears wouldn’t stop. It felt like the universe wept for our misfortune. I wondered if our mother had been alive, would we have faced such a fate? Stepmothers, when cruel, can become a nightmare, just as the stories warned. After a brief talk, Adam left with Uncle Khan, placing his hand on my head, urging me to stay strong. I cried for days, missing him terribly.
Uncle Khan grew fond of Adam, treating him like a son. He gave him a place in his home and later handed over his truck, encouraging him to save for a better future. Adam’s honesty and hard work earned him respect. But he missed me and returned to our neighborhood alone one day. Aunt Clara had passed away by then, and her daughter broke the news, crying. Adam tried to see me, but my stepmother refused. I watched him leave through a crack in the door, tears falling like rain. Uncle Khan, hearing of this, was heartbroken. Later, he arranged Adam’s marriage to his daughter, ensuring his stability.
Meanwhile, my father married me off to my stepmother’s cousin, a man addicted to drugs with no income. I had no choice but to accept, relying on my father’s financial support. When Adam learned of my marriage, he went to confront our father, demanding to know who I was married to and where I lived. But our father, stubborn as ever, ignored him. Adam left, heartbroken, and we remained separated.
Six years passed. I became a mother to three children, while Adam had two sons. He moved to Rawalpindi from Peshawar due to threats from Uncle Khan’s rivals. Uncle Khan bought a house there and gave Adam a bus and later a van, helping his business grow. My husband’s addiction worsened, and he eventually died. My father realized his mistake in arranging my marriage but could only offer limited help. Struggling to support my children, I sent my eldest to work at a workshop, but he was too young to handle the harsh environment and ran away one rainy night.
Standing by the road, soaked and shivering, he was nearly hit by a van. The driver stopped just in time and asked his name. The boy said, “Adam,” and shared that his mother named him after her brother, who was lost to us. The driver, my brother Adam, broke into tears. Through my son, we were reunited. I hugged him, overwhelmed, unable to believe he was back. Days later, he took us to Rawalpindi, buying us a house.
Soon after, we learned our father was ill. Aunt Clara’s daughter urged us to return. Our stepmother was ashamed, and our father was near death. The house was in disarray, with no food. We stayed a month, nursing him back to health. Adam brought him to Rawalpindi, providing a nearby house so we could care for him. Years later, our father passed away. Adam, ever noble, supported our stepmother and her children, finding jobs for her sons and mine. While they couldn’t study beyond high school, Adam’s children attended good schools and succeeded.
Today, I live a content life, all thanks to Adam. I pray daily for his safety and prosperity. May every sister have a brother as kind and devoted as mine, who never forgot his family despite countless hardships.
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