Between Two Lives

"Come on, Dad, let’s go..."

It all happened one quiet afternoon on the tram.

An old man sat across from a visibly pregnant woman. She looked worn out — not just from physical strain, but from something deeper. Her posture was heavy, not just from the weight of her belly, but from life itself. Her eyes told a story of quiet sorrow, lingering exhaustion, and a kind of fear that can’t be easily named.

The old man seemed curious, a little too much so. He leaned forward just a little, squinting kindly at her, and asked with a tone that wavered between warm and intrusive:

"So... how far along are you?"

She didn’t answer right away. Something in her hesitated, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to open herself up to this moment — or to anyone, really. But maybe the silence felt heavier than speaking, because after a pause, she said softly,

“Six months.”

“Is this your first child?” he asked.

She nodded, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“Yes.”

The old man smiled gently.

“Don’t worry. Everything will be just fine.”

Her hands moved protectively to her belly — not just out of instinct, but maybe as a way to anchor herself. To remember why she was still standing. A tear formed, trembling in the corner of her eye. She looked away, her voice barely a breath:

“Insha’Allah... I hope so.”

But the old man wasn’t done. His questions grew more personal.

“You seem like you’ve been going through a lot. Is your husband not around?”

She lowered her gaze. A silence followed, heavy and sharp.

He waited, then gently asked,

“Where is he now?”

Her voice cracked slightly when she finally replied.

“It’s been four months since he left... May God deal with him.”

The man’s eyebrows lifted.

“Why did he leave you?”

She didn’t answer. This time, the silence wasn’t from hesitation — it was defense. Protection. Still, he pushed on.

“What about your family? Your friends? Is no one with you?”

And then, something inside her gave way.

Tears slid down her cheeks, soft but unstoppable. Her voice trembled:

“It’s just my father. That’s all I have left.”

The old man exhaled slowly.

“Ah... so your dad’s the one who stood by you?”

She nodded again, sadness deepening.

“Yes. But… he’s sick. He can’t really do much anymore.”

Concern flickered across the man’s face.

“What’s wrong with him? Is it serious?”

A young man nearby, who had been watching the whole exchange, finally stepped in.

“Hey, man — that’s enough. Leave her alone, alright?”

But she held up her hand slightly, signaling it was okay. Maybe she just needed to say it aloud.

“He has Alzheimer’s,” she said quietly. “It’s been getting worse.”

Just then, the tram began to slow — her stop.

She stood up, one hand on her back, the other gripping a handle. She took a few steps toward the door. Everyone assumed the story had ended.

But then something remarkable happened.

She turned, walked back to the old man, and gently took his hand. Her voice was soft, lined with pain and strength in equal measure:

“Come on, Dad… let’s go.”

In that moment, everything made sense.

The man she had been speaking to wasn’t a stranger — he was her father. The same father she said had Alzheimer’s. The one who’d forgotten her. The one she refused to leave behind.

He had asked questions he should have known the answers to. And she had answered every one with love, like it was the first time — because for him, maybe it was.

That tram ride wasn’t just a journey. It was a snapshot of a love that endures memory itself — a daughter caring for the past while carrying the future.

The weight she bore wasn’t just a pregnancy.

It was memory.

It was grief.

It was loyalty.

It was life.