That evening, Hashmat climbed up to the attic in search of some old photographs. As his hand moved across a dusty shelf, his fingers touched something solid — a first aid box. Slightly worn, its edges dulled with age, yet to him, it was a doorway to the past.
When he opened it, a faint smell of antiseptic rose into the air. Inside, every item told a story.
Vaccination cards, bandages, and quiet care — memories that speak louder than accusations. Silent care, sleepless nights, and a father’s heart that never stops loving.
A small polythene bag held his children’s vaccination cards — polio, measles, meningitis, boosters — each mark a testament to his care. Beside them were paediatric prescriptions, not for serious illness, but for normal coughs, colds, and stomach cramps — the usual little troubles of childhood. Even these minor discomforts would steal his sleep, keeping him awake by their side until they felt better. Every folded paper carried a memory of his quiet care.
Rolled bandages, half-used ointments, and a jar of Betadine reminded him of scraped knees he had cleaned, cuts he had sealed, and the trust of little fingers gripping his hand. Scissors and adhesive tape brought back evenings when the medicine had run out — but his care never did.
These ordinary items were chapters of a father’s devotion — his effort to protect and heal his children long before they even understood what protection meant.
And now… in a courtroom, those memories felt painfully distant.
Across the room, Salma spoke loudly, accusing him of negligence — a father who never provided, never vaccinated, never cared. Her words tried to erase years of silent dedication.
Hashmat stayed calm. His heart ached, but he knew the truth. Every scraped knee, every fevered night, every drop of medicine he had given — all were acts of love. Invisible to many, but real… very real.
He trusted the law and Allah — the All-Seeing, the Most Merciful. Falsehood is temporary; truth stands forever. Every heartbeat, every sacrifice, every prayer whispered beside a sick child — Allah knew.
So he waited. He endured.
The truth lived quietly — in that first aid box, in vaccination cards and prescriptions, in memories of tiny hands holding his finger, soft breaths in sleep, and coughs soothed through the night. Love didn’t need witnesses; it only needed sincerity.
His children were his lifeline. His love — his greatest proof. He believed justice would never abandon an honest father.
Hashmat took a deep breath. He could not stop others from lying, but he held firm to the truth. In faith, he found strength. In memories, he found comfort. In invisible love, he found a joy that could never fade.
Syed Majid Gilani is a Government Officer by profession and a reflective writer-storyteller by passion. He can be reached at syedmajid6676@gmail.com.
