It’s midnight

yet again—
and I wait.
An infant in one arm,
a clinging toddler on the other,
refusing sleep.

I am drowsy.
Sleep-deprived.
Tired.
I want to collapse into bed.
But still—
I wait.

Isn’t that what good wives do?
Wait for the husband to return,
ask about his day,
offer him comfort
after a long, exhausting one of his own.

But how do I give
what I no longer have?
Me—
deprived of comfort,
of sleep,
of even basic sanity.

As the two tiny beings slip into dreams,
I fight every urge to follow.
I fight every natural instinct
just to lie down and breathe.

I ask myself—
is being a good wife
the only reason I’m awake?

And deep in my subconscious,
a quiet answer rises:
No.

I’m not awake just to comfort him.
I wait—
to be comforted.
After a day of being told what to do,
I long to be heard.
To be seen.

Yes, I know his day was harsh,
his work demanding.
But was mine any less?
Parenting two kids under five,
caring for in-laws,
carrying the weight of a home,
while trying not to lose
myself.

I know its beyond comaprision.
This is survival.
And still—
I remain home.

But sometimes, home feels less like a refuge
and more like a prison—
where emotions loop on repeat,
day after day.

I’m sorry if this seems like too much.
I just need someone to listen.

“Weekends,” they say.
But should I only be heard
one day out of seven?

Expensive trips,
fancy gifts—
you know I don’t want them.
Not now.
Not when I can’t even recognize myself
in the mirror.
Not when I’m buried so deep
in the layers of motherhood,
I feel truly—
lost.

I need you.
More than anything.
I need you to believe
that I’m still more than a mother.

Even if you don’t—
I do.

Tell me you love
this disheveled version of me.
The puked clothes,
the messy hair,
the eyes that barely stay open.

Remind me what my Lord
has granted
through the sacrifices I have made.
Because right now—
I don’t even feel
like a good Muslim.

Tell me you’ll love me again.
Not just when I’m strong,
but like the Turkish saying:
you love twice—
once in someone’s wholeness,
and once in their brokenness,
their fears,
their flaws.

Tell me—
one day—
it’ll just be me and you.

Lend me your ear,
even if its ten minutes a day.

Hear me.
My insecurities,
my tired truths—

without judgment.

So I can find the strength
to give you comfort
from the storms outside—
and you,
the courage to face
the tornadoes
rising within me.