When the baby was given in her hands, the mother let out a scream of joy. A flood rolled down her eyes and laughters full of life and love echoed all about. She was standing on the gates of heaven.
When the baby was shown to the father, he refused to pick her up. A daughter, oh? Not mine. He stayed as quiet as a ghost until they were in the hospital ward, and only became a devil when they reached home. This, he pointed to the bundle of new breathes, is not to live here. Take the filth away!
That day, a TV set broke. A row of perfume bottles was thrown to the floor. A knife was shown to threaten the weaker sex. Curse words were gifted. Tears were shed. Hell visited house.
That day, mother didn’t leave. That day, baby didn’t weep. That day, my father didn’t sleep.
This entry was posted on June 22, 2015 by randomlyabstract. It was filed under 2015, My Writings and was tagged with broken, daughters, family, father's day, fiction, hatred, relationships, social issues, stories.