The cereal hits the floor like a storm of tiny glass beads.

“Mama, it was an accident!” Rania wails, already teetering on the edge of tears.

Aina freezes mid-step, holding a pair of mismatched socks in one hand and a damp wipe in the other. Her mind is a tangled mess of tasks—school bags, lunchboxes, the meeting at 10 a.m.—but right now, all she can hear is the crackling static of rage rising in her chest.

Don’t shout. Don’t shout.
She inhales sharply through her nose. Her jaw tightens.

It would be so easy—so familiar—to let it loose. To slam a palm on the table, to throw out a sharp “Enough!” like a hammer.

Instead, she closes her eyes.

“One breath,” she whispers. “Just take one breath.”

Behind her, baby Hamza begins to cry. The sudden noise breaks something open inside her—frustration, exhaustion, fear—and for a second she sways under it.

This was not how she imagined motherhood.

Aina was seven the first time she got the cane.

She had knocked over her glass of milk, just like Rania had now. Her mother didn’t shout. She rarely did. Instead, she fetched the long, thin rattan rod from behind the curtain. No words. Just a look. Aina had held her breath, frozen like prey.

One strike across the leg. Two. Three.

After, her mother gave her paratha with ghee and sugar, as if the pain was nothing more than a lesson neatly closed with food.

That was love, in her house. Quiet, strict, and wrapped in fear.

Aina once asked her mother why she hit them. “So you’ll learn respect,” her mother replied. “You’ll thank me when you’re older.”

But she didn’t. Not really.

“Mamaaaa, my socks!” Rania whines, hopping on one foot.

“Here,” Aina says, kneeling to help. Her voice shakes slightly. “Let’s put these on together, okay?”

Rania pouts but nods.

They’re late, of course. There’s traffic. The baby spits up on Aina’s scarf. Her boss calls right as she’s backing out of the driveway. And at school drop-off, Rania clings to her like Velcro and starts sobbing.

“I don’t want to go! Please, Mama!”

Other parents stare.

“She needs boundaries,” says one woman under her breath.

Aina stiffens. Her fingers twitch with the impulse to peel Rania off forcefully and march away. That old voice echoes: Be firm. Be cold. That’s the only way they’ll listen.

But instead, she crouches down and says, “You’re safe. I’ll come back after lunch, like always.”

Rania hiccups. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

Ten minutes later, Aina sits in the car, hands gripping the steering wheel. Her lip trembles.

She wants to cry. Or scream. Or both.

Instead, she drives to work in silence.

That night, bedtime is a battlefield.

Rania refuses to brush her teeth. Hamza throws a teether across the room. Aina tries to remain calm, but her voice rises—just a little, just enough. Rania yells back, “I don’t like you!”

The words hit her like a slap.

After both kids are finally down, Aina sits on the hallway floor, back against the wall. Her eyes burn. Her chest aches.

“I’m failing,” she whispers into the dark. “I’m trying so hard and still—still—”

A small shuffle. Then: “Mama?”

She looks up. Rania is standing in her pajamas, holding a half-crumpled drawing from earlier that day.

“I drew you as a flower,” she says. “Because you always smell nice when you hug me.”

Aina presses her hand to her mouth.

Rania sits beside her, curling up in her lap without a word. She places one chubby hand on Aina’s cheek.

“It’s okay, Mama. I know you’re trying.”

That simple sentence undoes her completely.

She holds her daughter close and sobs—not because she’s broken, but because something old inside her is healing.

The next morning, Hamza drops a bowl of banana mash on the floor.

Aina starts to tense, then stops.

She kneels. Looks him in the eye. “Oops. Messy, huh?”

He giggles. She smiles.

When Rania struggles with her shoes, Aina helps her without sighing.

They’re still late. She still forgets her keys. Hamza still pees through his onesie. But there is no shouting today.

No storms.

Only small whispers of grace between the chaos.

Only a mother, trying again.

The cereal hits the floor like a storm of tiny glass beads.

“Mama, it was an accident!” Rania wails, already teetering on the edge of tears.

Aina freezes mid-step, holding a pair of mismatched socks in one hand and a damp wipe in the other. Her mind is a tangled mess of tasks—school bags, lunchboxes, the meeting at 10 a.m.—but right now, all she can hear is the crackling static of rage rising in her chest.

Don’t shout. Don’t shout.
She inhales sharply through her nose. Her jaw tightens.

It would be so easy—so familiar—to let it loose. To slam a palm on the table, to throw out a sharp “Enough!” like a hammer.

Instead, she closes her eyes.

“One breath,” she whispers. “Just take one breath.”

Behind her, baby Hamza begins to cry. The sudden noise breaks something open inside her—frustration, exhaustion, fear—and for a second she sways under it.

This was not how she imagined motherhood.

Aina was seven the first time she got the cane.

She had knocked over her glass of milk, just like Rania had now. Her mother didn’t shout. She rarely did. Instead, she fetched the long, thin rattan rod from behind the curtain. No words. Just a look. Aina had held her breath, frozen like prey.

One strike across the leg. Two. Three.

After, her mother gave her paratha with ghee and sugar, as if the pain was nothing more than a lesson neatly closed with food.

That was love, in her house. Quiet, strict, and wrapped in fear.

Aina once asked her mother why she hit them. “So you’ll learn respect,” her mother replied. “You’ll thank me when you’re older.”

But she didn’t. Not really.

“Mamaaaa, my socks!” Rania whines, hopping on one foot.

“Here,” Aina says, kneeling to help. Her voice shakes slightly. “Let’s put these on together, okay?”

Rania pouts but nods.

They’re late, of course. There’s traffic. The baby spits up on Aina’s scarf. Her boss calls right as she’s backing out of the driveway. And at school drop-off, Rania clings to her like Velcro and starts sobbing.

“I don’t want to go! Please, Mama!”

Other parents stare.

“She needs boundaries,” says one woman under her breath.

Aina stiffens. Her fingers twitch with the impulse to peel Rania off forcefully and march away. That old voice echoes: Be firm. Be cold. That’s the only way they’ll listen.

But instead, she crouches down and says, “You’re safe. I’ll come back after lunch, like always.”

Rania hiccups. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

Ten minutes later, Aina sits in the car, hands gripping the steering wheel. Her lip trembles.

She wants to cry. Or scream. Or both.

Instead, she drives to work in silence.

That night, bedtime is a battlefield.

Rania refuses to brush her teeth. Hamza throws a teether across the room. Aina tries to remain calm, but her voice rises—just a little, just enough. Rania yells back, “I don’t like you!”

The words hit her like a slap.

After both kids are finally down, Aina sits on the hallway floor, back against the wall. Her eyes burn. Her chest aches.

“I’m failing,” she whispers into the dark. “I’m trying so hard and still—still—”

A small shuffle. Then: “Mama?”

She looks up. Rania is standing in her pajamas, holding a half-crumpled drawing from earlier that day.

“I drew you as a flower,” she says. “Because you always smell nice when you hug me.”

Aina presses her hand to her mouth.

Rania sits beside her, curling up in her lap without a word. She places one chubby hand on Aina’s cheek.

“It’s okay, Mama. I know you’re trying.”

That simple sentence undoes her completely.

She holds her daughter close and sobs—not because she’s broken, but because something old inside her is healing.

The next morning, Hamza drops a bowl of banana mash on the floor.

Aina starts to tense, then stops.

She kneels. Looks him in the eye. “Oops. Messy, huh?”

He giggles. She smiles.

When Rania struggles with her shoes, Aina helps her without sighing.

They’re still late. She still forgets her keys. Hamza still pees through his onesie. But there is no shouting today.

No storms.

Only small whispers of grace between the chaos.

Only a mother, trying again.