Killed by His Own Child

In Faisalabad lived Iftikhar Ahmed, a quiet, hardworking mechanic. His hands were always stained with grease, but his heart carried nothing except dreams for his only son, Sameer. Life was never easy—he earned just enough to cover rent, feed his family, and save a little for his boy’s future. Yet he never once complained. His greatest wish was simple: to see Sameer climb higher than he ever could.

Sameer was his pride. Bright, disciplined, and admired by teachers, he was the child neighbors praised with certainty: “MashAllah, he will be an engineer one day.” At those words, Iftikhar’s eyes often filled with tears of gratitude. For him, Sameer was not just a son—he was his purpose, his legacy, his hope.

But when Sameer entered college, everything began to shift. Among new classmates, he noticed what he lacked—while others flaunted expensive smartphones, he had only an old keypad phone. Feeling left out, he asked his father for a smartphone. Protective and cautious, Iftikhar refused.

“Beta, focus on your studies. A phone will only waste your time.”

The disappointment grew into distance. The boy who once sat with his father every evening now spent hours borrowing friends’ phones, scrolling endlessly, laughing at things his parents didn’t understand. Iftikhar noticed the change. And unable to bear his son’s sadness, he sacrificed three months of savings to buy him a second-hand smartphone—believing it would bring them closer again. He could never have known he was placing a weapon in his child’s hands.

The Game That Stole Him

What started as harmless entertainment soon consumed Sameer. Games like PUBG and Free Fire became his entire world. Nights blurred into dawn as he played endlessly, eyes red, grades slipping, his tone with his parents growing sharp and cruel.

If interrupted, he shouted. If scolded, he slammed doors. His mother wept quietly, whispering, “Our son is slipping away from us.”

Iftikhar’s heart broke a little more each day. He pleaded, reasoned, prayed. Nothing changed. At last, one night, he quietly locked the phone away.

When Sameer discovered it, rage exploded. He accused his father of being backward and cruel.

“You’re ruining my life! Everyone else has freedom—only you hold me back!”

The words cut deep, but Iftikhar stood firm.

“I gave you a phone to learn, not to lose yourself. I will not let this game destroy you.”

The house became a battlefield. Sameer stopped eating with his parents, stopped speaking, and looked at his father not with love—but with hatred. Iftikhar, broken, sought solace only in prayer. Neighbors often saw him weeping on his prayer mat, begging Allah to return his son to him.

The Night Everything Ended

On a humid July evening, Sameer returned from college, angry and restless. His father, exhausted from a long day at the workshop, was lying in the lounge. His mother, Rubina, was in the kitchen. Something inside Sameer snapped.

Blinded by anger, he picked up a heavy wrench from the tool cabinet and struck his father. Once. Twice. Again. By the time Rubina rushed in, screaming, Iftikhar lay motionless, blood spreading around him. The smartphone—the object that started it all—lay nearby, shattered.

The neighborhood was shaken. Police arrived. Sameer, pale and hollow-eyed, was taken away in handcuffs, whispering, “He ruined my life. He shouldn’t have taken it.”

Two days later, Iftikhar was buried. His janazah was silent, heavy with disbelief. Friends and neighbors stood in shock—how could a father who gave everything be killed by the very son he loved more than life itself? Rubina’s cries echoed through the graveyard, her world torn apart.

The Aftermath

Sameer now sits in a juvenile prison. No Wi-Fi. No PUBG. No Free Fire. Only walls, silence, and regret. His once-bright eyes are now hollow. He has lost his father, his family, his future—everything—for a game that gave him nothing.

But this tragedy is not just about one boy. It is a mirror reflecting what is happening in many homes. Fathers sacrifice their entire lives to give their children better futures—yet some are losing them to the glow of a screen. The bond of love and trust is breaking under the weight of digital addiction.

Iftikhar Ahmed did not die from poverty, illness, or old age. He died because the son he raised, the child he trusted with his heart, chose a game over his father.

And that is perhaps the greatest tragedy of all.