A Battle Over Glasses
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Hafsa sat cross-legged on the floor of the small living room, her voice trembling as she spoke, though she tried to keep it steady. Her parents were seated on the worn-out sofa, her father’s arms crossed, her mother’s eyes narrowing behind her glasses. Her aunty perched on the edge of a chair, chiming in now and then, while Hafsa’s younger brother fidgeted on the carpet, silently observing the brewing storm.
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“I don’t understand why I can’t just pick a pair of glasses I like,” Hafsa began, clutching the corner of her dupatta tightly in her hands. “The ones you bought—they’re for old women! I’m the one wearing them, not you!”
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Her mother sighed dramatically, exchanging a look with her sister. “See what I mean? This is exactly what I was talking about—she talks back so much these days!”
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“I’m not talking back,” Hafsa said, her voice raising slightly despite her best efforts. “I’m just saying that I should get to choose something I have to wear every day. Is that so unreasonable?”
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“Hafsa!” her father barked, his voice booming. “Watch your tone. You’re always so loud. Why can’t you just speak properly for once?”
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“I am speaking properly!” Hafsa exclaimed, her frustration bubbling over. “But no matter what I say, you think I’m being disrespectful! I’m just asking for something simple. Why is it such a big deal?”
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Her aunty clicked her tongue, shaking her head. “You don’t understand, Hafsa. Your parents do everything for you, and this is how you repay them? By complaining? When we were your age, we wore whatever our parents gave us and didn’t dare question it!”
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Hafsa turned to her, her hands shaking now. “But times are different! And I’m not trying to be ungrateful—I just don’t want to wear something that makes me feel… embarrassed.” Her voice cracked on the last word, but she refused to let herself cry.
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Her brother, silent until now, suddenly spoke up. “She’s right, you know. Those glasses do look like something grandma would wear.”
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The room went still for a moment, and Hafsa’s mother shot him a sharp glare. “Stay out of this, Rahi. You’re just making it worse.”
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“But it’s true!” Rahi protested, shrugging. “She’s the one wearing them, so why not let her pick?”
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“Enough!” her father said, his tone final. “We already bought them. We’re not wasting more money just because she doesn’t like them.”
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Hafsa’s chest tightened. “It’s not about wasting money—it’s about how I feel. Why doesn’t that matter to you?”
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Her mother sighed, rubbing her temples. “You always make such a big deal out of everything, Hafsa. Why can’t you just be grateful? You’re impossible to deal with sometimes.”
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The words stung, but Hafsa forced herself to stand her ground. “I am grateful. But why does being grateful mean I can’t have an opinion? Why does it mean I have to accept things that make me unhappy?”
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Her parents didn’t respond, but their disapproving silence was loud enough. Hafsa bit her lip, realizing that no matter how much she explained, they wouldn’t see her side.
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Her brother gave her a small, supportive smile, and for now, that was enough.
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As she left the room, Hafsa whispered to herself, “Maybe someday they’ll understand.” But deep down, she wasn’t sure if they ever would.
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