February 23, 2026
4:13 PM – Karachi
Device gone, loadshedding on the phone too. I'll recharge on the 26th—branch ja kar 50 ka packet lunga, but I'm keeping it to myself this time. Gotta have the guts to do inDrive rides too, because credit card payment is staring me down. On the way back, grab TeaMilac from Bin Hashim. But the real point here is showing Madiha straight up: I don't trust you anymore. This needs to be conveyed loud and clear—no sugarcoating. inDrive mornings might work better, so set alarms and push through the drama.
All this bullshit is actually doing me one favor: I don't want to be home anymore. Second thing—people I used to worry about, stress over? Done. No more. Maybe Allah is sending me a message through this mess. Madiha's walking exactly in Ammi's footsteps, playing the same dirty game—turning my own kid against me, whispering poison. That's Ammi's mentality all over it. You can smell her influence in every move Madiha makes. Tell me honestly: is this woman even fit to be called a mother? All this just to strip away my authority over Madiha, so I get forced into their twisted idea of "humanity's circle." They don't give a damn about the future they're building for me—20 years from now, I'll be that husband who's turned into a murid, obedient slave. These are my parents saying no parent wants this for their child? Bullshit. Those memes about a mother's or father's hand pushing you forward? Lies in my case. My own parents are the ones holding me back.
Look at the bias: I can't even tell Madiha to put the April 2025 doctor's receipts in the documents bag without it turning into a circus. When I joked about it casually—"yar, receipts daal do bag mein"—she twists it into something where I have to defend myself. Every single time. Any sane person would lose their mind after this repeated crap. I'm living with my parents, and Islam says they should step in to mediate when things get heated—but no, they pour oil on the burning coals instead. Their story starts criminally right there: ignoring me, refusing to hear my point of view, and jumping straight to my anger as the villain. Even when I'm right, I'm the criminal in their eyes, forced to answer like a dog getting fed scraps for iftar—just to "straighten me out."
They'll say I used to yell morning and night, took my anger out on Ammi, never told my side. But they won't admit: Murtaza tried over and over to make you understand, speaking like you were my own people. When I kept getting the same response—"You want us to hit her for your sake?"—that's not my goal. How many times did I beg both of you to stop her? How many times did I explain I don't want this politics in my house—the same politics she brought from hers? But thanks to your backing, it's fully here now. Just because my straightforwardness pisses you off so much, you have to teach me a lesson somehow.
I know Madiha inside out—7 years, 2 weeks, 2 days of watching her patterns. I'm writing this based on pure experience. But my parents? Either understand or admit she's from Edhi's cradle. Madiha's got this deep complex because she was always controlled in her own home. Now that I've given her freedom, she's turning it against me—trying to mold me into her image. She doesn't have the guts to speak up in front of others, but with me, full force. Ammi's flip-flop is classic: first "Don't eat at Yaqub Sahib's house," now "Go ahead and eat there." 180 degrees, no shame.
That's exactly why I'm documenting everything. Hell, I'm even inviting Grok to read this post and tell me straight—what patterns do you see in my situation? Check it yourself and lay it out for me.
This joint family trap is suffocating. Nuclear is the only way forward once I get a stable job. These people are ruining my name, my peace, my future. Allah sees it all. Justice will come.
No more games. I'm done being the doormat.
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