A father’s pride, a daughter’s burden

The rhythmic hum of weaving looms filled the air inside the small workshop, where rolls of colored fabric draped along the wooden beams. The air was thick with the scent of drying ink and soft, freshly spun thread.

Aziz, Eda’s father, stood in the center of the workspace, inspecting the work of his weavers and tailors. His hands were steady, firm—his eyes sharp as he observed the stitches being sewn with careful precision.

The town’s fashion industry, though small, was essential. The city’s elite relied on their craftsmanship, on their ability to transform mere textiles into works of art.

Shane, one of Aziz’s trusted subordinates, leaned against a table, smirking lightly. “What of Eda’s results?”

Aziz let out a proud chuckle. “They should be arriving soon. I have no doubt she’ll score the highest.”

Shane laughed. “That girl is something else. You raised her wel.”

“She will do great things,” Aziz said, his voice filled with certainty. “No matter what stands in her way.”

But as the evening arrived, Aziz did not yet know the truth.

*******************************************************

Back at home, Eda’s stepmother had already buried her success beneath deception.

"You must tell him you failed," the woman had whispered, her voice tight, calculating. "He cannot afford to send you away. If you care about your father, about your siblings, you must make the sacrifice."

Eda had stood there, her pulse pounding in her ears.

"If you truly love them," the woman pressed, "then you will let this go."

*******************************************************

Shane laughed. “That girl’s going places. You must be proud.”

Aziz’s expression softened. “More than anything.”

A quiet pride settled into his features, a father’s confidence in his daughter’s future. Then, shifting the conversation, he clapped Shane’s shoulder.

“You all must come to the house for the New Year’s party. We’ll gather around the campfire, as always,” Aziz said, his voice warm with anticipation. “We’ll celebrate her, as well as the year ahead.”

Shane’s face lit up, and murmurs of excitement rippled through the workers.

“She deserves it,” another tailor chimed in. “Exceptional girl, that one.”

The energy in the workshop lifted, voices cheering as they toasted to the girl they all believed in.

But outside of these walls, beneath the roof of their shared home, Eda’s truth was being rewritten.

*******************************************************

The weight of her stepmother’s words sat heavy in Eda’s chest as she drifted through the streets, head bowed, steps slow. The world around her moved in the familiar rhythm of daily life—children laughing, vendors calling, neighbors waving—but she did not lift her gaze. She did not meet their smiles. The lightness that usually lived in her footsteps had disappeared, replaced with something leaden, something hollow.

She reached the workshop, the scent of sawdust and warm metal wrapping around her like a long-lost embrace. Her father was in the midst of conversation, his voice full of warmth and excitement as he paced between the tables. Then—someone called her name.

"Eda is here."

Her father turned. The moment their eyes met, his expression shifted. The anticipation in his face softened, giving way to concern as he read her silence, the sorrow written in her features. A father's intuition needed no explanation. His steps carried him to her, his arms pulling her into a firm embrace.

"It's okay," he murmured, a steady reassurance against the storm inside her. "Next year is another year. We'll make this happen." His voice was unwavering, filled with quiet conviction, as if there was no room in his heart for doubt.

Around them, the workshop had fallen into silence. Just moments ago, laughter and conversation had filled the air, the certainty of her success unquestioned. Now, disbelief lingered in their silence, the weight of her unspoken confession settling over the room like dust in the beams of light.

Aziz looked around at the gathered workers, their downcast gazes mirroring his own feelings, and then—he straightened. His voice rang out, breaking the hush.

"Everyone at my house tonight. We are celebrating the new year, and I won’t have any of these long faces. She worked hard, harder than anyone, and that is worth celebrating."

The workshop stirred again, nods exchanged, voices rising in agreement. One by one, hands clasped her shoulder, arms wrapped her in comfort, laughter returning in soft waves.

The invitation stood. And in its acceptance, Eda felt, just for a moment, the burden lift.

*******************************************************

The evening unfolded in a cascade of movement, the household of Aziz coming alive in preparation for the celebration. The scent of spices thickened in the air as women gathered around the worn wooden tables, their hands moving with practiced precision—chopping onions, kneading dough, stirring fragrant pots that simmered over the open flame. The rhythmic clatter of knives against cutting boards blended with bursts of laughter, their voices weaving together in lively conversation, exchanging stories, gossip, and the kind of shared wisdom passed between generations.

Outside, the men busied themselves with the fire, stacking fresh logs onto the growing campfire. Sparks leapt into the night, embers glowing a deep orange as flames curled upward. The fire crackled and pulsed, sending warmth through the crisp evening air. Children darted between the adults, their joy unchecked—some chasing one another in a breathless game of tag, others sneaking sweet treats from uncovered platters before being scolded playfully by the women.

In the far corner of the courtyard, the elders sat in a close-knit circle, their laughter rich and full, deep voices exchanging old stories that had been told time and time again, yet never lost their charm. Some leaned in with knowing glances, others stroked their beards, punctuating every tale with nods of approval. A rhythmic drumbeat started from somewhere among the crowd, slow at first, then growing, folding itself into the atmosphere, binding the celebration with tradition.

The household hummed with life—motion, sound, scent—every detail breathing into the moment, turning the evening into something unforgettable. And amidst it all, Aziz watched, his gaze landing on his daughter, who moved through the celebration, still carrying the weight of the day, yet wrapped in the warmth of the people who loved her.

*******************************************************

The evening swelled with celebration—flames crackling, voices spilling into the night, laughter threading through the warm air. Challa, ever watchful, threw sharp, cutting glances at Eda from across the room, her dark eyes flicking between her daughter and the unsuspecting father. She had no need for words; her gaze carried the weight of a warning, a silent command to hold her tongue. Minie, sensing her mother’s tension, sat stiffly beside her, fiddling with the hem of her sleeves, while Adam, oblivious to the storm brewing, tugged at the strings of a kite, eager to take it into the night sky.

Then—movement at the gate.

Mr. Danal and his wife, flanked by a handful of neighbors, entered the courtyard with lively chatter. They spoke in excited tones, their voices carrying over the hum of preparation. As they approached Aziz, their hands lifted in congratulatory gestures.

"Mr. Aziz!" Mr. Danal boomed. "What wonderful news—congratulations!"

Aziz, who had been listening to an elder recount an old folktale, looked up, his face settling into polite confusion. He straightened from his relaxed stance, his hand still resting on the shoulder of the elderly man beside him.

"What news?" he asked, warmth still lingering in his tone despite his uncertainty.

Mrs. Danal grinned, eyes bright. "Where is she? Where is our brilliant girl? The teachers couldn’t stop singing her praises! Highest grade in town—and a scholarship, no less!"

A quiet ripple passed through the gathered guests, whispers stirring at the edges of the courtyard.

Aziz blinked. His gaze darted across the crowd, searching. Searching for his daughter—for confirmation, for clarity. But Eda was nowhere to be seen.

Challa, meanwhile, had gone still. Like water interrupted mid-flow, her movements halted, her mind racing beneath the composed exterior she fought to maintain. Thoughts twisted and tangled. Explanations eluded her.

Aziz turned toward her, toward the house, toward the guests who had arrived bearing news he had not expected. And in that moment, silence draped itself over the celebration.

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