nawab sagar
Bio
I’m a writer who explores life, growth, and the human experience through honest storytelling. My work blends reflection, emotion, and meaning—each piece written to inspire, heal, or make readers think deeper about life and themselves.
Stories (10)
Filter by community
the broken wife
I stopped the world for one day. No meals, no laundry, no smiles. And when he asked what I did, I finally said the truest thing. I tried to breathe. My name is Amanda. And at 39, I find myself navigating the treacherous waters of a life I never anticipated. Married to Marcus for 12 years, our union once flourished with the promise of shared dreams and mutual ambition. He, at 42, had been my anchor through countless storms, while our two daughters, luminous beings who embodied our hopes, completed what I had naively believed to be an unshakable foundation. In those hion days, our existence resembled a carefully orchestrated symphony. We possessed a home that whispered of comfort and security, a vehicle that carried us toward our aspirations, and I maintained employment that not only provided financial stability, but also nourished my sense of purpose. Happiness seemed as permanent as the morning sun, and foolishly I had convinced myself that this equilibrium would endure indefinitely. Yet life with its characteristic cruelty had other designs. The catalyst for our downfall arrived in the form of my new superior, a woman whose management style could only be described as tyrannical and whose sense of fairness appeared to have been surgically removed. The workplace, once a sanctuary of professional fulfillment, transformed into a battlefield where dignity was the first casualty. After months of psychological warfare, I made the decision that would unravel everything. I resigned. This choice, born from desperation rather than strategic planning, would prove to be the stone that started an avalanche. Had I possessed the foresight to construct a more palatable narrative, claiming redundancy or corporate restructuring, perhaps the subsequent erosion of my family's faith might have been averted. Instead, my honesty became the weapon by which my own household would wound me. Initially, Marcus's response offered the comfort I desperately sought. You've acted with integrity. He assured me, his voice carrying the warmth that had first drawn me to him. No one should endure such treatment in silence. His words were bal to my battered psyche. And for a brief moment, I believed we would weather this storm together. However, as the weeks transformed into months, his solidarity began to crumble. Like autumn leaves beneath relentless footsteps, the weight of sole financial responsibility pressed upon his shoulders until his patience buckled. "You remain sequestered within these walls, while I bear the burden of our expenses alone." he would lament, his tone increasingly sharp with resentment. I had presumed your unemployment would be temporary, not a permanent fixture. The irony was not lost on me, having always harbored dreams of expanding our family with a third child. I viewed this period as providence presenting an opportunity. When I tentatively broached the subject, his reaction was volcanic. Have you completely abandoned consideration for my welfare? He erupted, his face contorting with frustration. The responsibility of feeding this family. I cannot rest solely upon my shoulders. I am exhausted by the constant symphony of infantile demands and perpetual illness. His words conjured memories of our earlier struggles when both our careers demanded such dedication that neither could attend to our children's basic needs. We had been reduced to intreating neighbors for assistance with school collection. A humiliation that still burned in my memory. Now with our daughters enrolled in formal education, I had envisioned their maturity would facilitate the care of a newborn. But Marcus had already poisoned that well. We feel embarrassed. My eldest daughter confided, her words striking like physical blows. Mother still desires additional children. The seed of his disapproval had taken root in their young minds, transforming them into unwitting accompllices in my isolation. Even my mother-in-law, previously a source of measured support, withdrew her allegiance. "Your daughters will soon enter matrimony themselves," she observed with calculated coldness. Yet you persist in these maternal fantasies. My days became an exercise in invisible labor. I scoured employment opportunities with the desperation of the drowning, tended to my parents' garden with filial devotion, and maintained our household with meticulous care, all while earning not a single coin for my efforts. Yet this comprehensive contribution to our family's well-being remained unagnowledged as though my activities occurred in some parallel dimension visible only to myself. The expectation that I should simultaneously manage domestic responsibilities, provide child care, maintain the property, and generate income created an impossible equation. I had become a performer, juggling flaming torches while walking a tight rope with my audience demanding ever more spectacular displays while providing no safety net. My personal economy became a study in deprivation. Garments purchased years ago hung from my frame like remnants of a former life, while my mother's occasional gifts address here. Cosmetic products there represented the extent of my material acquisitions. The bitter irony that I had failed to establish personal savings during my employment haunted me daily. Now each expenditure required supplication to my husband, reducing me to the status of a dependent child. The realization that my family's support I had evaporated left me psychologically a drift. Each dawn arrived like a summons to perform in a play where I had forgotten my lines. I would rise before the household stirred, orchestrating the morning routine with mechanical precision, preparing breakfast, sanitizing surfaces, ensuring our daughter's readiness for education. Gratitude once a given had become extinct in our home. Marcus's return from his professional obligations invariably included an inquisition regarding my job search progress. His question delivered with the weight of accusation became a daily laceration. Why haven't you secured employment yet? These words possessed the power to diminish me, to reduce my sense of selfworth to something smaller than dust. Solitude became my most faithful companion. Standing before mirrors, I encountered a stranger, a woman whose eyes reflected exhaustion and whose smile had been archived away. The vibrant Amanda, the resilient Amanda, seemed to exist only in photographs from happier times. Financial anxiety permeated every aspect of our existence. educational supplies for our children, essential household repairs, and basic necessities competed for resources that simply didn't exist. My empty wallet became a symbol of my powerlessness, a tangible reminder of my reduced circumstances. The job interview that promised hope delivered only further disappointment. will be in contact. The hiring manager assured me with practiced insincerity. The silence that followed was deafening, and I wept during the journey home, my tears mixing with the rain that I'll seemed to mirror my internal weather. Nocturnal hours became my refuge. seated at our kitchen table while the household slumbered. I would cradle a cup of tea like a talisman and contemplate the ruins of my existence. The desire for meaningful employment wared with my maternal longings, creating an internal conflict that defied resolution. Marcus occupied our marital bed in solitary splendor while I sought comfort beside our daughters, listening to their whispered conversations that reminded me how thoroughly I had become an outsider in my own home. The morning arrived when my body staged its own rebellion. Leaden limbs refused to respond to my will. My head pounded with the rhythm of accumulated stress, and the prospect of eternal sleep seemed less frightening than facing another day from the kitchen. Marcus' demands echoed like commands from another world. Where is my shirt? Where is my lunch? I buried my head beneath covers, seeking the silence that had become so precious. Once our daughters departed for school, the house's emptiness became a cathedral of despair. I collapsed onto the floor and surrendered to tears that had been accumulating for months. Each sob was a release of pain that had been compressed and stored, and I wept until my chest achd with the effort. Why had I accepted this diminished existence? Why had my contributions become invisible to those who claimed to love me? I gave my time like a philanthropist, distributing wealth, offered my strength as though it were inexhaustible, and provided love without expecting reciprocity. Yet the return on this investment was bankruptcy of the spirit. On that particular day, I declared a moratorum on my services. No meals were prepared. No surfaces were cleaned. No laundry was folded. When Marcus returned to find his domestic machinery had ceased functioning, his anger was predictable. What exactly occupied your time today? He demanded, his tone suggesting I owed him an accounting of every moment. I tried to breathe, I replied, the honesty of my response apparently incomprehensible to him. His bewildered headshake and retreat to consume whatever sustenance he could locate spoke volumes about the chasm that had developed between us. No inquiry about my well-being emerged, no recognition of the tears that had stained my face throughout the day. That evening, I sought solace on our balcony where the stars provided silent companionship. Perhaps somewhere in that cosmic vastness, hope still existed. Perhaps the narrative of my life had not yet reached its final chapter, and redemption remained a possibility rather than a fantasy. The following morning brought renewed determination. I approached job searching with the methodology of a researcher crafting applications with the precision ak of a scholar and dispatching them into the digital void. My declaration to Marcus that I intended to contribute financially to our household seemed to surprise him. That's encouraging. he responded, his tone suggesting he had begun to doubt this day would ever arrive. I trust you'll be successful soon. Two additional interviews materialized, each offering its own blend of promise and disappointment. One potential employer praised my qualifications while explaining their current lack of openings a common refrain that had become the soundtrack of my search. The second provided a glimmer of possibility. Return next week. We may have something available. This modest encouragement felt like water in a desert. Perhaps the tide was finally beginning to turn in my favor. At home, I initiated a conversation with our daughters that had been long overdue. I desire both professional fulfillment and the possibility of expanding our family, I explained. My honesty, creating space for authentic dialogue. Their response surprised me with its maturity. We want your happiness, mother. These words, simple yet profound, reminded me that love had not entirely evacuated our household. Although my mother-in-law maintained her position that I should consider my choices carefully, I felt my inner strength beginning to regenerate. My assistance at my parents' farm increased while my obsession with domestic perfection decreased. rest. That most neglected necessity was gradually reintroduced to my routine. I am capable of this. I reminded myself daily. I will continue attempting progress regardless of the obstacles. Improvement is possible for my family and for myself. The telephone call that arrived one ordinary morning carried extraordinary news. We would like to offer you a position, the voice announced. And I experienced the simultaneous rush of elation and terror that accompanies significant life changes. Marcus' reaction to my employment announcement exceeded my expectations. I'm proud of you, he said, his smile reminiscent of earlier, happier times. These words, so simple yet so long absent from our conversations, felt like a benediction. Returning to the workforce required adjustment, but the psychological benefits were immediate. Possessing my own income restored a sense of agency I had forgotten existed. Interacting with colleagues reminded me that I was more than a domestic functionary. I was a complex individual with valuable contributions to make. The transformation extended throughout our household. Our daughters witnessing my renewed confidence became more supportive of my maternal aspirations. Even Marcus' demeanor softened as though my professional success had reminded him of the woman he had originally fallen in love with. My desire for a third child remains, though now it exists within a more balanced framework. I have rediscovered my strength and my capacity for self advocacy. Life continues to present challenges, but I have relearned the arts of perseverance and hope. The isolation that once threatened to consume me has been replaced by a renewed sense of connection to my family, to my community, and most importantly to myself. This experience has illuminated uncomfortable truths about human nature and social dynamics. Financial independence commands respect in ways that domestic contributions never will. Family loyalty, I have learned, can be conditional rather than absolute. The importance of maintaining personal resources, both financial and emotional, cannot be overstated. We never know when circumstances will require us to draw upon these reserves. Yet, perhaps the most valuable lesson has been the recognition of my own resilience. I am not the passive victim of circumstance I once believed myself to be. I am Amanda Complex, capable and worthy of respect. The reluctant homecoming to this realization has been painful, but it has also been transformative. I am no longer alone because I have finally learned to be my own companion and advocate.
By nawab sagarabout a month ago in Confessions
When the Mirror Finally Spoke Back
here’s a strange kind of silence that settles when you hit your forties. A silence no one warns you about. Not the loud, jarring kind—more like the soft hum of a life that suddenly asks if you’re paying attention. For me, the quiet came at 42, not on a birthday or any dramatic anniversary, but on an ordinary Tuesday morning while brushing my teeth.
By nawab sagarabout a month ago in Confessions
I Leave Little Pieces of Myself Everywhere I Go
I didn’t realize how many versions of myself I had lived through until I started looking back. Not in the dramatic, life-changing way movies show it — but in small, invisible moments that left dents in me. Not wounds, not scars… just soft indents. Proof that I’ve lived, stumbled, gotten up, and somehow kept walking.
By nawab sagar2 months ago in Poets
the weight of a quiet stone
A stone the size of my thumb sat in my pocket for years before I ever realized it was there. I don’t remember when I picked it up — maybe sometime around childhood, maybe earlier, maybe it was placed there before I learned to speak. All I know is that it grew heavier every year, pressing into my leg, shaping the way I walked without me even noticing.
By nawab sagar2 months ago in Confessions
How Do You Smile Today?
Some days, smiling feels easy. Other days, it feels like lifting a mountain with your bare hands. But somehow, we still try. We still search for that small moment—maybe just a second—that reminds us there is beauty in living, even when life feels impossibly heavy.
By nawab sagar2 months ago in Humans
What I Wish I Knew at 20
When I was twenty, I thought I had everything figured out. I thought life would unfold the way I wanted, that time would wait for me, and that my mistakes wouldn’t matter as long as I said, “I’ll fix it later.” But “later” comes faster than you think, and it never waits for your readiness.
By nawab sagar2 months ago in Confessions
