The Burden of Expectations
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Hafsa sat stiffly at the edge of the bed, her hands clutching the hem of her kameez so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Beside her, Rahi leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring intently at the floor. Their parents stood before them—father pacing back and forth, his footsteps echoing in the small, crowded room, while their mother leaned against the desk, arms crossed, her face a mask of controlled anger.
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The report cards were placed flat on the desk, but Hafsa’s eyes couldn’t help darting toward them again and again. Her chest tightened every time she saw her name printed next to that dreadful number: 18th.
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“Eighteenth place, Hafsa,” her father said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. He turned sharply toward Rahi. “And you—thirty-seventh? Thirty-seventh? Do you two even realize how embarrassing this is for us?”
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Hafsa’s stomach churned, her breath hitching. She felt a lump rise in her throat, and her chest grew heavier with every word.
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“We work day and night to provide you with everything you need,” her mother continued, her voice cold and clipped. “We send you to the best schools, the best tutors, and this is what we get in return? You’re throwing away your future!”
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“I… I tried,” Hafsa whispered, her voice trembling as she dared to speak. “I studied for hours every night—”
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“You call that trying?” her father snapped, cutting her off mid-sentence. “If this is the result of your so-called ‘effort,’ then clearly you weren’t trying hard enough. You’ve become lazy, Hafsa. Completely lazy.”
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The word stung like a slap. Hafsa’s lips quivered as she tried to hold herself together. She blinked rapidly, but the tears were already pooling in her eyes. “I’m not lazy,” she said, her voice cracking. “I really did try—”
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“Stop it, Hafsa,” her mother interrupted sharply. “You’re always so emotional, always playing the victim. This isn’t about your feelings. This is about your failure to do what’s expected of you!”
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Hafsa flinched as if she had been physically struck. The tears spilled over, running down her cheeks in silent streams. She tried to wipe them away quickly, but her shaking hands betrayed her.
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Her father sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. “Look at you—crying over something so small. This is exactly the problem. You don’t have the discipline, the mental strength to handle anything. And it shows in your grades.”
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“Abbu, please, I’m trying,” Hafsa whimpered, her voice barely audible.
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“Trying isn’t enough!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the desk. “Results are what matter. And if you can’t deliver results, then all your ‘trying’ is meaningless.”
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Rahi finally looked up, his brows furrowing as he spoke. “Why do you always talk to us like this? Do you even realize how much pressure we’re under?”
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“Pressure?” Their mother scoffed, her tone dripping with disbelief. “You think you have pressure? You’re just children! You don’t know the meaning of pressure. Wait until you have real responsibilities—then you’ll know!”
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“This is why you’re both failing,” their father added, pointing a finger at them. “Because you’re too busy making excuses. Well, no more. From now on, there will be no phones, no internet, no distractions. You’ll be attending tuition classes every day, and when you’re home, you’ll study for at least eight hours.”
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“Eight hours?” Hafsa’s voice broke, and she couldn’t stop the sob that escaped her lips. “How are we supposed to handle that? That’s not fair!”
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“Fair?” her father barked. “Life isn’t fair, Hafsa! And it’s high time you learn that.”
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Her mother stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve become impossible, Hafsa. Always emotional, always talking back. Do you think successful people behave this way? Do you think we’re going to let you fail because you can’t handle a little discipline?”
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“I’m not talking back,” Hafsa said weakly, her voice shaking as she tried to defend herself. “I just… I just want you to understand how hard it is for me—”
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“You’re making it hard for yourself,” her mother interrupted, shaking her head in disappointment. “Stop being so sensitive. This hypersensitivity of yours will ruin your life.”
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The words felt like daggers. Hafsa looked down at her hands, her vision blurred by tears. She wanted to say something—anything—but her throat felt like it was closing up.
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Rahi put a hand on her shoulder, a silent gesture of comfort, but it only made her feel worse. She hated that he had to see her like this—falling apart in front of their parents, unable to hold her own.
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Their father spoke again, his tone final and unforgiving. “We’ve given you everything, and this is how you repay us? By becoming the worst children in the family? By embarrassing us? You should be ashamed.”
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Hafsa couldn’t take it anymore. The words echoed in her mind—lazy, emotional, failure, ashamed. She stood up abruptly, her legs trembling beneath her. “I… I can’t,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
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“Where do you think you’re going?” her father demanded.
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“I need to… I just need to breathe,” she said, her words choked by the sobs she was desperately trying to suppress. Without waiting for permission, she hurried out of the room, her vision blurred with tears.
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As she shut the door behind her, she leaned against it, gasping for air as the weight of their words crushed her chest. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, and she pressed them against her face, trying to calm herself down.
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Inside the room, she could still hear their voices—talking about her, about Rahi, about their failure. She closed her eyes tightly, wishing she could disappear.
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Rahi stayed behind, his jaw clenched as he listened to their parents’ relentless scolding. But deep down, he knew that Hafsa wasn’t the only one who needed to escape.
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and then Add to home screen.