“Ammi, one last story, please!” Ali’s voice was filled with the excitement only children possess at bedtime. His little toes poked out from under the quilt, wiggling playfully as he nestled into the warmth of the large king-size bed. At twelve, full of mischief, his eyes sparkled in anticipation of the tales his mother would weave.

He wasn’t alone. The room glowed with the gentle light of a single bedside lamp, casting a soft golden hue over the faces of his siblings. Abida, their mother, sat beside them on the bed. Her youthful face was framed by thick curly brown hair, which cascaded down her back. Her hazel eyes reflected the warmth and care she carried within.

Muneera, at sixteen, cradled little Noor who had just turned three. With her thumb firmly planted in her mouth she fought sleep with all her might. The twins, Junaid and Javed, were sprawled on the other side, their laughter bubbling up like a sweet melody.

“Alright, one last one,” Abida said, her voice soft and soothing. “And after this, you must sleep. We will all sleep.”

Ali flashed a wide grin in relief. He snuggled closer to Ammi, enjoying the gentle strokes of her hand through his hair as she began to draw them into a world of pretty princesses, brave warriors, dark forests, and deep dungeons.

The children hung onto every word; their eyes wide with wonder. In these moments, the world outside didn’t matter. The walls of their home faded away, and they were transported to distant lands, riding on the wings of their mother's voice.

Ali’s gaze was always fixed on his mother. It wasn’t just the stories that captivated him—it was Ammi herself. He soaked in her every expression, loving the way her face lit up with each word. More than the tales, it was her presence that anchored him. She was a reservoir of unconditional warmth, making him feel deeply safe and secure. He cherished that about Ammi and, in his innocence, believed life would always remain that way—warm, gentle, and safe.

But life had other plans. One morning, a day before the summer holidays, Ammi vanished like camphor. No explanation, no warning—she was gone.

“Where is Ammi?” he asked the caretaker at lunchtime.

“Where is Ammi?”  he asked again when she didn't come for their bedtime ritual either. Oddly, their opulent household—filled with servants, maids, cooks, masalchis, gardeners, and drivers—seemed to know nothing.

“Where is Ammi?” he became frantic as days dragged on, and nights felt colder. Their cherished bedtime story ritual disappeared. The house became a hollow shell of what it once was. While the other children clung to Muneera in their mother’s absence, Ali clung to hope alone---that his beloved Ammi would return sooner than later.

“If she’s lost, why isn’t anyone looking for her?” he wondered his heart heavy with confusion and frustration. 

“Why hasn’t she called us or Abbu?” he asked Muneera, his voice laced with fear. “Is it possible she has forgotten us, Appa?” His heart hammered with emotions he didn’t know how to name.

“No, she hasn’t forgotten us! And I’m sure the elders are doing their best. Let's be patient.” 

But how long could they wait? Muneera seemed to avoid him. Did she know something? Was she hiding something? For Ammi couldn’t be lost. She wasn’t a little girl; she was tall and beautiful, with her long brown hair and hazel eyes—the kind that made everyone stop and look. Surely, someone would have seen her. Surely, she could have asked for help. Unless, of course, she was lost in one of the dark dungeons of the stories she told them. In that case, he would have to do everything to save her. Ali’s young mind was tangled in fear and confusion.

When weeks stretched into a month, hope slowly transformed into a gnawing ache, a constant question lingering in the back of Ali’s mind: Why? Why did she abandon him?

When his father returned from a business trip after two months, Ali finally gathered the courage to speak to him. Abbu hardly ever spoke and carried an intimidating air about him, so different from Ammi’s warmth. But Ali had to face him.

“I miss Ammi so much. Is there no way we can bring her back, Abbu?”

Abbu’s eyes shadowed with sadness and he spoke in riddles. “It is what it is. Sometimes, we can’t fight destiny. You focus on your studies, and I don’t want to hear about your Ammi again.”

That very month, Ali’s worst nightmare came true. Fighting tears, he had to leave for boarding school, far from the echoes of Ammi’s stories. The separation from his siblings deepened his sense of loss. 

Every phone call with Muneera felt like a stab of longing. “Has she come back?” he would ask, the question no longer brimming with hope but weighed down by despair.

“No, Ali,” Muneera would answer, her voice quieter each time. “Focus on your studies. Ammi would want us to do well.”

Days in school dragged on, filled with routines, classes, and forced smiles. Every night, as Ali lay alone in the cold, unfamiliar dormitory, he would close his eyes and imagine Ammi beside him, telling him another story. Her voice, vivid in his memory, lulled him to sleep, filling the void with comfort he longed to feel again.

The house, already a shadow of what it once was, now seemed like a graveyard of memories. The air felt thick with unspoken agony; grief too heavy for words. Ali noticed with wrenching pain how Ammi’s photos gradually disappeared. Her memories were wiped out, as if she had never existed.

Two years later, as soon as Muneera turned eighteen, her nikah was arranged. Around the same time, their father took a new wife, only slightly older than Muneera. Since she was too young to manage the household, Abbu moved away with her.

Ali was only fourteen then; the twins had turned ten, and Noor hadn’t yet started school. There were servants aplenty to look after them, but from then on, they grew up like orphans, even while their parents were alive. Muneera, at eighteen, became the grand matriarch, running in and out, managing her own home and her siblings.

Ali felt increasingly disillusioned with life. He didn’t know when his confusion and grief slowly morphed into rage. He walked around with a dark mass of hatred for the world that had swallowed his beloved mother. In his heart, there was a lava ready to spew out. Why hadn’t she come back? Didn’t she care? Didn’t she miss him? Didn’t she think of them?

During one visit home, Javed and Junaid shared something that became the final nail in the coffin. In hushed tones, Javed declared, “The elders say Ammi has been banished because she was an evil spirit and was cursed.” Ali’s stomach twisted in disbelief. Junaid’s eyes widened as he pressed on. “The Maulana saved us.” Ali recoiled, his heart pounding. Junaid’s words clung to his mind like a dark cloud, feeding his anger and confusion.

As much as he wanted to resist it, the darkness of doubt crept in, and that soft part of his heart that was once filled with warmth felt cold and revulsed. Who should he believe? Who could he trust? Maybe the Maulana had saved them from something far worse than abandonment. Maybe it was good riddance.

That night, in the cold of his hostel bathroom, he cried. “Ammi, why did you destroy everything? Why did you turn evil?”

The more he buried the pain deep inside, the more hardened he grew. Ali decided to focus solely on his studies and career, even though everything seemed meaningless. Over time, the only feeling that remained was hatred that engulfed his love for his mother. He didn’t care for anyone or anything after that. He detested his father, too, for his irresponsible absence when he needed him most.

Finally, it all burst out one day when his father made a cursory visit on Ali’s eighteenth birthday. “Abbu, you needn’t have punished us for Ammi’s disappearance. I wanted to share that much as I cannot forgive Ammi for abandoning us, I cannot forgive you either for your silence and absence, especially when we needed you the most.”

What his father said that day pierced through him like a poisoned dart, shattering him beyond grief.

“I do not need your forgiveness, Ali. You need mine, if at all. When the last Maulana, my grandfather, died, the choice for succession naturally fell upon my uncle. But your mother’s father ignored it and declared himself the Maulana, fraudulently. He made his daughter conspire to run away with all of you. When she failed, she started a bitter custody battle. She slandered us, spoke ill of us, brought disgrace to our community, and destroyed our family. She may have been a good mom to you, but do you see the havoc she wrecked? And don’t forget, you are a part of her, Ali. All of you children will pay for her sins forever. And these are not my words; the Maulana says this. It’s best we don’t talk about these things.

Abbu had turned away and left without a single glance back that day. In that moment, a dam shattered within Afzaal, unleashing a torrent of despair that made a part of him crumble under the weight of his emotions. His very identity and integrity waged war against the deep, unwavering love he had felt for his beloved Ammi, leaving him torn and lost in the chaos of his heart.

Why did life have to throw such a cruel curveball at him? What was his fault in all of this? As if being abandoned wasn’t enough, he now faced the unbearable weight of needing to atone for his mother’s sins. A deep sense of exhaustion washed over him, leaving him feeling sick and dizzy.

In his rush to escape, he stumbled over something and fell hard to the floor, his head striking the sharp corner of a table. Everything around him blurred into a haze. As he pushed himself up and turned toward the door, he caught sight of HER through the fog…

He was engulfed in a whirlwind of emotions. Anger surged within him, quickly followed by an overwhelming tide of sadness. He longed to hate her for leaving him behind, yet the deep ache in his heart—the part that still cherished her warmth and the stories she had shared—held him back.

 There she stood, just as he remembered her: a warm, loving presence that had once been the very centre of his world.

“Ali,” she said softly, her voice heavy with sorrow. “I want you to know that I can hear you, even if you don’t speak.”

Ali blinked, convinced that his grief was playing tricks on him. “Ammi?” he choked out, disbelief mingling with hope.

“I came to tell you,” She continued, her eyes brimming with the regret of lost years, “one last story.”

Tears welled in his eyes---eyes that were exactly like Ammi's. Confusion and anger boiled within him. “What story?”

“I was banished, Ali, because I refused to slander my father, who had been honoured by the last Maulana to be his successor. I was punished for standing up for what I believed was true. They warned me of dire consequences if I came near you children. Every door was closed to me, and they threatened harm to you if I tried to reach out… I became an alienated mother!”

Ali's breath caught in his throat as the years of unanswered questions crashed down upon him. He stared at her, his heart caught in a tumult between betrayal and the warmth of her presence. “Didn’t we matter to you?” he whispered.

A sad smile tugged at her lips. “This is more complex than you think, Ali. I was young, and I did what I believed was best for all of us. I had no idea things would turn out this way. I kept a diary every day, documenting everything. Check my site called ‘The Story of an Alienated Mum.’ You’ll find my side of the story—my challenges and my pain.” Her image grew fuzzier, as if she were slipping away.

Ali’s mind spun in disbelief. “Why now?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Why tell me all this now?”

“Because,” she whispered, her form beginning to fade, “I needed you to know that I never stopped loving you.”

Ali fell to his knees, the weight of her words crushing him. Anger gave way to something deeper—mourning for the mother he had lost so long ago, and for the first time in years, a desperate need to voice the pain of separation he had endured. 

“What about me, Ammi? What about your Ali? What was my mistake in all this? Do you want to know what I went through?” A sinking feeling washed over him, as if he were being pulled into a dream world.   

When he opened his eyes again, he found Muneera, the twins, and Noor surrounding him.

“Are you okay?” they spoke in unison.

“Where’s Ammi?” he asked, confusion lacing his voice.

“Have you been dreaming of Ammi? Are you okay? You bled quite a bit from your wound,” Muneera replied, concern etched on her face.

“But she said things I can’t just dream about. She even mentioned something about a site…”

Ali quickly grabbed his laptop and typed, “The Story of an Alienated Mum.”

“Yah Allah! This actually exists!” he gasped, a mix of excitement and disbelief flooding through him.

Muneera sat down, curiosity shining brightly on her face as she leaned closer to the screen. “What is it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“This is Ammi’s blog,” Ali replied, his heart pounding with excitement, “but it is password protected. We can’t log in.”

“Try lostchildren@2014,” Muneera suggested, her eyes reflecting a glimmer of hope.

“What? How do you know?” Ali asked, bewildered.

“I received a message from an unknown number today, and it had this code…” she explained, her voice trembling with anticipation.

Ali quickly typed it in, and within moments, he gasped, “It works! It works!” His heart raced as he turned the laptop towards the others.

The siblings huddled closer, their faces illuminated by the glow of the screen, eyes wide with a mix of puzzlement and curiosity. 

They felt a rush of emotions—excitement, apprehension, and a longing to uncover the secrets of their mother's untold story

“Look,” Ali continued, scrolling through the entries, “here are all her diary entries from 2014 onwards… It starts with a poem…”

My Lost World; My Last Story (5 Aug 2014)

Lost custody of the kids today. I cannot even see them again. What kind of justice is this?

Truth is a grey land, neither black nor white,
Shifting with shadows, hiding in the light.
It’s found in whispers, between wrong and right,
A silent balance, elusive to sight.

The children I bore, now shadows, gone,
Lost to a feud, where love can't dawn.
A mother's arms once held them tight,
Now empty in the dead of night.

My husband, once so strong and kind,
Bound by a faith that blinds his mind.
He cannot face the battle's toll,
Nor share the weight of this fractured soul.

I see my girl, her heart of gold,
Defend her father, brave and bold.
She cannot hear the world’s cruel lies,
Her pain reflects within my eyes.

I see my boys, the light of my soul,
Who couldn’t rest without a story told.
Now, their dreams drift far from me,
Our nightly tales, just memories to be.

I see my baby, once cradled with care,
Whose tiny hands tugged at my hair.
Now those hands, once soft and warm,
Have grown distant, lost in the storm.

And here I stand, though love once bloomed,
A mother, hated, in her tomb.
Living to watch their backs turned cold,
A life of grief, forever untold.

Ali’s heart pounded as he watched Muneera bury her face in the pillow, sobbing, while Noor hid her own face in Muneera’s lap. The twins stood like two marble statues, tears flowing uninterrupted down their cheeks. In that moment, the room felt charged with unspoken truths, the siblings locked in a silence that echoed the weight of their loss.

“Appa, the truth is a grey land; I see it clearly now. We’re all suffering because we’re trapped in the conflict of right and wrong. When will this end?” Ali said, his voice filled with dismay.

“And I’m wondering, maybe…” Muneera choked on her sobs, “just maybe, it’s not too late to heal…”

“I really hope this isn’t her last story,” wept Noor, her tears flowing freely.

The siblings huddled close, a wave of shared understanding washing over them, softening the years of anger and grief that had kept them apart. In that tender moment, the untold story of alienated children began to rise within them, a poignant yearning to be shared with the world, as if each unshed tear carried the weight of their unspoken pain and the hope for healing.

“I wanted her back, but now I don’t even know if that’s possible,” Junaid admitted, his heart heavy.

“Whatever happens, I don’t want to hate her anymore,” Javed echoed, his voice thick with emotion.

After a pause, Muneera spoke softly, “What if we sit and remember her together? What if we share our stories—the good ones, the ones that made us laugh and think of her?”

And just like that, they began to share—each story a gentle thread weaving their past together, slowly mending the frayed fabric of their alienated family. As they reminisced, Ali felt the grip of hate begin to loosen, embracing the warmth of his mother’s love and the laughter that once filled their home.

By the end of the night, something had shifted within them. Even in her absence, Ammi had woven a legacy of love that could unite them. Though he couldn’t change the past, he could choose to honour her memory, allowing love to blossom where anger had once taken root---beneath their silence, in their untold story.