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There were days, so many days, I’d walk alone,
With a baby in a pram, and a heart like stone.
The world felt heavy, the weight on my back,
As I trudged to the shop, the path turning black.

I’d gather the groceries, the basics, the need,
Strap my baby close, in the heat and the speed.
The stroller became my cart, my burden, my friend,
As I walked back home, my strength on the mend.

The milk, the diapers, the food to survive,
All in the pram, just to feel alive.
But the father would come, when it suited his mind,
And help came only if I begged and I pined.

He’d pick fights for reasons unknown,
Words that cut deep, in a house of stone.
He’d storm out, never offering a hand,
Leaving me alone, to face the demand.

At night, when I was drained, beyond the end,
He’d visit at 8, as if to pretend
That his love for the baby, was ever so real,
But all I felt was the ache, the wound, the steal.

I began to set boundaries, to take back my peace,
Saying “You can’t come so late, let me have some release.”
But he grew angry, as if it were a crime,
To ask for respect, to claim my own time.

Then one day, I tried to make it right,
Invited his family, to share the light.
We sat at the table, tried to be kind,
But their words hit harder, left me behind.

“They had a ceremony, for your son,” they said,
A Muslim rite, but I was left for dead.
No thought of me, no place for my name,
As if I didn’t matter, as if I was the same.

It struck me then, with a heart-breaking truth,
That they never saw me, the mother, the proof.
It was as if I and my family had never existed,
Our love, our bond, forever resisted.

In that moment, I knew, beyond the pain,
That I had to rise, to break every chain.
For my son, for myself, for what I’d become,
I would fight, and walk, and rise on my own

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