Is Home Where the Heart Is?
Saniya Tasnim
1:00 am. The soft hue of a singular lamp illuminated Aisha’s bedroom, shadows dancing on the walls behind her as she stretched her arms over her head. Her father’s light snoring could be heard from the next room. Aisha was finally done with her homework, and slowly began exiting out of all the tabs she had opened. But her mouse hovered over the last one, a housing application she had filled out for next year. It stared back at her, almost daring her to submit it. She hesitated before slowly getting up and making her way to the kitchen.
Her mother was hunched over the stove, worrisome lines streaking her forehead. Aisha took notice of the array of pots and pans that occupied the stove, the various spices that littered the counter and the aroma filling the air. She grinned, excited to taste all the delicacies her mother had meticulously prepared for tomorrow. Her family enjoyed a tight group of friends they had known for almost ten years. Together, they planned gatherings, potlucks, and the occasional road trip. And as was the tradition in South Asian culture, they were hosting a housewarming party.
She tapped her mother’s shoulder, gaining her attention.
“Mamma, don’t you think this is too much? It’s a gathering for our family friends, not a buffet at a restaurant,” she stated in Urdu.
Her mother simply smacked her shoulder lightly, before resting the spoon down on the counter.
“To you it seems like a lot. But you know how our friends are. So many and all with appetites as if they haven’t eaten for days,” her mother mumbled, as Aisha let out a short laugh. In turn, the corners of her mother’s lips curled upwards.
They had always shared everything with each other, from what happened that day at university to the funny video her mother had seen. They even had their own inside jokes. Aisha had always felt more comfortable around her mother, thinking of her more as a friend than as her mother. But her father? Aisha wasn’t close with her father at all. In fact, she felt it hard to even inform him of her hobbies and passions, something every child shared with their parents. It didn’t seem to be a problem when she was younger, but now she even rehearsed her sentences beforehand whenever she approached him.
“Now tell me this: are you going to keep standing there or do I have to cook all these dishes alone? You know your father–always keen to call guests but never ready to help,” her mother proclaimed sarcastically, and Aisha smiled remorsefully.
“Of course I’ll help you, Mamma. You know I always do,” she said softly, looking in the direction of her parents’ bedroom.
But I wish Pappa was the one to help you instead.
The sound of shouting woke Aisha from her slumber. Rubbing her eyes vigorously, she got up from her bed and lazily made her way to the living room where her parents stood. From what she heard in her sleepy state, her parents were fighting over the piles of clothes that took up most of the space on the sofas. Her father was yelling at her mother, indicating to her that she should have folded the laundry ages ago. Her mother yelled back, pointing to the kitchen and the cooking and cleaning she had to do. Neither of them noticed Aisha on the verge of tears. Her parents hadn’t fought like this in at least a week, but why was she so surprised? Why did she ever think that her parents would talk it out, would compromise? Why did she ever think they would stop? And for her?
Her parents had a unique relationship, if it could even be called one. And she was the one who held the burden of their relationship on her scrawny shoulders. She was the one who pulled away the knife that could cut the thick, suffocating tension that oozed out of every interaction her parents shared. She was the one caught in the middle, batting from both sides. But why did it always have to be her to keep the peace?
She slowly walked back to her room, without her parents noticing, and wrapped herself in her comforter as she sobbed silently.
Sounds of chatter and laughter filled the house. It was later that day, and their family friends were slowly arriving at the housewarming party. Her mother was alternating between the kitchen and the living room, while her father attended to guests entering from the front door. All traces of the argument that morning were gone, but Aisha wasn’t able to erase it from her memory this time. Perhaps it was because she had seen this happen before. She was optimistic then, but not anymore.
Her mother calling her over brought her out of her thoughts, as she made her way to a family she hadn’t seen in a while. Her father was there too, cracking jokes as he usually did.
“Remember Aisha? She helped so much for the party today. You know I was telling you she’s practically my best friend? I only listen to her nowadays,” her mother remarked, laughing as the aunty and her father joined in. Aisha smiled uncomfortably. Every time her mother said this, she felt uneasy. But today she felt it more than usual. Was it because her mother and father were amicable with each other all of sudden? Was it because of the remark?
It was both. And suddenly, Aisha was done. She couldn’t put on this facade of being okay anymore. She couldn’t keep sacrificing her mental health to salvage her parents’ relationship. She couldn’t keep convincing herself it would all get better. She rushed to her room, locking the door and opening up her laptop. She stared at the application briefly before hitting submit. And a weight was lifted off her shoulders. She could breathe again.
Saniya Tasnim is majoring in biological sciences with a minor in psychology. She is part of the class of 2025 and is from Secuaucs, New Jersey. In her spare time she enjoys reading young adult fiction, writing, playing volleyball, and watching shows of all genres.
Saniya wrote this story in a creative writing course taught by Professor Paul Blaney. Blaney selected the piece for inclusion in WHR.