Dad! Don't Marry Me

A short story demonstrating innocence, helplessness and dominance

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm

Copyright © 2025 Sanya Kurd

Mahmuda was going to her class with her bag full of books hanging on her back. She was wearing a red hairband, and her black, mid-curly hair danced with each jump of hers. She entered the classroom where Ms. Aiasha stood on the stage, teaching Maths with affection. Mahmuda loved studying algebra; she was always fascinated by the friendship between numbers and alphabets.

The school bell rang, and children swarmed out of their classrooms. Mahmuda, along with her friend Sakeena, came outside holding hands while chatting about the next day.

“Ms. Aiasha has asked us to bring chart paper and color markers to school tomorrow. We will make cards for our baba. It’s Father’s Day on the 15th,” Mahmuda said with excitement.

“I am also very happy, but how do I get color pens? I have just six pencil colors. Baba says when he has money, he will buy me some,” Sakeena said with sadness in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Sakeena. I will share mine with you,” Mahmuda said with a wide smile, holding her hand tighter.

Sakeena also looked at her with a smile.

“Amma, I’m home!” Mahmuda shouted as soon as she set foot inside.

“Amma, I’m very hungry!” she continued shouting.

There was no reply.

She lifted her backpack off and placed it on the chair, then took off her scarf with her little hands.

“Amma, where are you?” she started looking around the house.

“Here, beta,” a low voice came from the corner of the house.

Mahmuda followed the voice.
Her amma was sitting in the old storeroom on a wooden block.

“Amma, why are you sitting here?” Mahmuda asked, raising her green eyes in concern.

“Nothing, beta. Let’s get you some food,” her mother, Zahra, got up from the block as if she had been fatigued for years.

“Amma, I’m going to make a card for Baba in school. It’s Father’s Day! I want to give him a gift too. I’ll use my Eid money. When are we going to buy it, Amma?” Mahmuda spoke non-stop.

“Hush now, eat your food,” Zahra left the heated plate in front of her and went to the room.

Mahmuda began eating daal chawal. While eating, she heard the sound of whimpers, someone was crying in the house. But there was no one except Mahmuda and her mother.

A wave of panic ran through Mahmuda’s chest.

She left the food on the table and ran to her Amma’s room.
The door was half open.
Before she set foot inside, she heard her mother talking to someone on the phone.

“I don’t know, Waleed. I have tried every way to convince him, but he won’t listen. Mahmuda’s abba is persistent in his decision,” she said while crying.

Mahmuda’s heart was dropping with each passing second.

“She is only thirteen, and that man is in his thirties. My little angel’s life will be ruined. Oh Waleed, my brother, do something!” Zahra’s voice became louder.

Mahmuda didn’t understand what her mother was talking about… at least not in that moment.

“Amma, why are you crying? I’ll also cry, Amma,” Mahmuda said in a broken voice, tears filling her eyes as she stepped inside the room.

“Mahmuda, come here, janum,” Zahra shouted with open arms, her eyes glistening.

Mahmuda ran into the warm embrace of her mother. It felt as if the warmth of the whole world was wrapped in those two arms. She felt loved. She felt protected.

“What were you talking about, Amma?” Mahmuda looked up. Her mother’s face was teary, each drop glistening over her pale skin.

“Nothing, beta. Don’t you worry about anything,” Zahra hugged her tighter.

Mahmuda didn’t ask anything more.

Mahmuda’s father, Akmal, walked into the house by evening. His heavy footsteps were enough to announce his presence.

After dinner, as Mahmuda lay in bed trying to sleep, she heard her parents arguing, but she didn’t listen on purpose, as if avoiding something.

The next day, Mahmuda spent her time making a Father’s Day card for her father.
She returned home beaming with joy. She had made a card full of glitter, drawings of cute bearded faces, and pasted little chocolates she had bought by saving her pocket money.

“Amma, look at my card!” she said, waving it as soon as she stepped inside.

Zahra was in her room, packing something. A red dress was hanging nearby, freshly pressed.

“Are we going somewhere, Amma?” Mahmuda asked, her eyes puzzled.

Zahra looked at her daughter. Her eyes were full of tears; pain, frustration, anger, helplessness; all mixed together.

“Come here, janum. I want to talk to you,” she said in a very soft voice.

Mahmuda stepped closer.

“Sit with me.”

She obeyed.

“Tonight, you will be wedded to Khurshid, and then you will live with him. I’m packing your things. I’ve kept all your toys in separate boxes.”

“What do you mean, Amma? Who is Khurshid?” Mahmuda was still puzzled.

“It means you will be his wife, like Amma is Abba’s wife. She cooks, cleans, and lives for Abba,” Zahra said, trying to keep her voice strong.

“Will you be there with me, Amma? To help me with homework?” Mahmuda’s eyes were shining with curiosity.

“No, beta. You will live with his family. I won’t be there with you. And you won’t have homework anymore… because you will leave school. I’ll keep coming to see you every month.”

Mahmuda began to tear up.

“Amma, I don’t want to go anywhere! Amma, don’t send me away! If you come with me, then I’ll go anywhere. But don’t leave me alone,” Mahmuda said all in one breath.

She understood now. She had seen it happen to Gaulalai, her neighbor, who got married and never came back home.

She protested with her fragile hands, shaking her mother’s arm.

“Amma, don’t leave me! Amma—”

But Zahra remained silent.

After some time, Mahmuda also became quiet. Both sat together till nightfall without saying a word.

Night came.
“Wear this dress, and I’ll get you ready,” Zahra said.

She stepped out briefly. When she returned, Mahmuda was dressed. The green stones in her jewelry matched her eyes. Zahra did her makeup, gently brushing her hair. Mahmuda looked like a little angel with haunted, dreamy eyes.

Before stepping outside to greet guests, Zahra took out a small black bottle from her dupatta and slipped it in Mahmuda’s hand.

After some time, she came back with Mahmuda’s cousins to escort her out.

Mahmuda was lying on the floor. Foam was gushing out of her mouth. Her headpiece was out of place. Her tiny hands were clenched, still holding the black bottle.

Zahra saw her daughter collapsed on the floor and rushed to her. She cradled Mahmuda’s head in her hands, kissed her gently on the forehead, placed it in her lap, and wept.

Then Zahra opened her purse and took out a tiny blade.
Before anyone could stop her, she quickly, but violently slit her wrist.

Her eyes were wide open as she struggled in agony, like a fish out of water.
She heard screams and cries. Through her blurry vision, she saw people rushing towards her.
She caught a glimpse of Akmal trying to wake up Mahmuda.

And then Zahra closed her eyes, everything went black.

The Father's Day card lay untouched, unopened on the bed. It’s glitters still shone. But no one read the words inside.

-Sanyaa

Background: More than 650 million girls and women alive today were married before turning 18, many without a voice, many carrying silent wounds that never fully heal.

Regional Distribution of Child Brides (Total = 650 million)

South Asia: 285 million (44%)

Sub-Saharan Africa: 115 million (18%)

East Asia and Pacific: 75 million (12%)

Latin America and the Caribbean: 60 million (9%)

Other Regions: 80 million (12%)

Middle East and North Africa: 35 million (5%)

Source: United Nations Children’s Fund (UNICEF), Child Marriage: Latest trends and future prospects, UNICEF, New York, 2018.

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