I met Aisha during a business trip to a remote village in the Himalayas. She was a mute orphan girl, living by working for a small roadside dhaba. Thin and toiled, yet her eyes haunted me forever. Aisha couldn’t speak, but she always looked straight into the eyes of the person opposite her, as if trying to listen to the whole world with her gaze.
I don’t know why, but I felt so much pity for her. Because of this, I argued with my whole family. My mother was openly displeased: “A mute person, no parents, no known background… why marry her? People marry to have children, to share life, not to bring more trouble!” I ignored them. I believed that as long as we lived decently, everything would be fine. I married Aisha. Though she couldn’t speak, she was a capable wife: waking up early to cook, taking care of my parents, doing laundry and chores flawlessly. No one could fault her. Gradually, my parents’ prejudices lessened.
Then Aisha became pregnant. The whole family seemed to change completely. My mother went to boast to the neighbors: “She may be mute, but she’s skillful and very blessed; getting pregnant in the first year is good fortune!” I thought my life had found peace. Until the day she gave birth — and uttered her first words in life.
The day she went into labor, I was worried sick. Because she couldn’t speak, every pain, every signal, she tried to convey by gripping my shirt with her hand. I held her hand throughout, from the waiting room until the nurse carried out the baby — it was a baby boy.
Tears welled up in my eyes. I kissed her forehead, and then suddenly… “Honey, he… he doesn’t look like you…” I froze. She… just spoke? No one could believe their ears. The nurse, my mother, even the doctor in the room turned around, stunned. And her next sentence shattered everything: “He’s your cousin’s son.”
Everything collapsed — and the mute wife’s heartbreaking past was exposed. I was stunned. She burst into tears. Her voice was hoarse, trembling. All those years she had pretended to be mute — not because of a disability, but because of an overwhelming fear. My mother’s face turned pale. I roared, forcing her to articulate every word. Aisha wailed: “The day you brought me home, I was one month pregnant… I intended to abort, but the doctor said if I did again, I wouldn’t be able to have children anymore.
I didn’t dare to tell… didn’t dare to tell…” It turned out, my cousin, Rohan, who had gone with me to the highlands that year, had forced himself on her. She had sought refuge in an orphanage, begged to be admitted, and pretended to be mute from that day on — because after that ordeal, every time she opened her mouth, she would have a panic attack, choking for breath. I slumped into the chair, my whole body numb. My mother cried as if she had never cried before. My entire family seemed to have exploded.
I intended to file for divorce… but then something unexpected happened. I took the child for a DNA test. The results were just as she said. I coldly wrote out the divorce papers and placed them on the table. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. I recalled the past three years — a mute, resilient woman, quietly taking care of the entire family, enduring so many judgmental looks, never uttering a word of complaint.Illustration of a woman doing skincare She made a mistake.
But I couldn’t deny: if I hadn’t brought her home, she wouldn’t have had to bear this pain alone. The next morning, I entered the room and saw her writing a letter by hand. She cried, placed the paper on the table, and carried the baby away. In the letter, she wrote: “I’m sorry for ruining everything. I once only wished for a family. But I don’t deserve it, so I will leave. The child is my mistake. I don’t dare to ask for forgiveness… I only hope you live well.” Six months later, I saw her in the street — and the final twist.
I accidentally caught sight of Aisha holding the baby in front of a small restaurant, asking for work. She was emaciated, her face haggard. I picked up the child; he recognized me immediately — and for the first time, he called out “Papa.” I didn’t cry, just quietly took her hand. I said: “It’s not your fault. It’s that I failed to protect you from my own kin.” We returned, starting over. That child — though not my flesh and blood, I will never let him grow up with the feeling his mother once carried: abandoned, voiceless, dehumanized.
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