Chapter 17: epilogue

Eight years later, Sehar and Hamza’s home was filled with the chaos and joy of parenthood. Their son, Raazi, a lively and sharp seven-year-old, was a spitting image of Hamza in appearance but had inherited Sehar's quick wit and fiery temper. Meanwhile, their four-year-old daughter, Iram, was a bundle of sunshine, her intelligence rivaling that of her parents, but her heart was undeniably her father's. She was Hamza’s “princess,” and she knew it.

It was a typical Saturday morning, and the house was bustling with activity. Raazi sat at the breakfast table, swinging his legs under the chair as Sehar set down a plate of pancakes in front of him.

“Why do I only get three pancakes, Mama?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her.

“Because that’s how many you’ll finish,” Sehar replied without missing a beat.

Raazi folded his arms. “Papa gets four pancakes.”

“That’s because Papa works hard and needs the energy,” Sehar said, smirking.

Raazi shot a glance at Hamza, who was sipping his tea while reading the newspaper. “Papa just sits in his office all day. I run more during recess!”

Hamza looked up, eyebrows raised. “Excuse me, young man, but do you know how much work it takes to run a multinational company?”

Raazi shrugged. “Probably as much work as it takes to convince Mama to let me have ice cream.”

Sehar snorted, trying to hide her laugh, while Hamza sighed, folding his newspaper. “See, this is what I mean, Sehar. He’s turning into a miniature version of you—always ready with a comeback.”

Sehar winked at her son. “Well, he learns from the best.”

Hamza shook his head in mock exasperation. “Great, now I have two of you to deal with.”

Iram, dressed in a frilly pink dress, came running into the kitchen, her curls bouncing. She climbed onto Hamza’s lap without hesitation, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck.

“Good morning, princess,” Hamza said, his voice softening instantly.

“Good morning, Daddy!” she chirped. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I drew a picture of us!” She held up a crayon drawing of a stick figure family. Hamza and Iram were in the center, with huge crowns on their heads, while Sehar and Raazi stood to the side.

Hamza beamed. “Wow, I love it! Look, Sehar, she even made me a king.”

Sehar leaned over to inspect the drawing. “And where’s my crown, Iram?”

Iram giggled. “You don’t need one, Mama. You’re already the boss.”

Hamza chuckled. “She’s got a point.”

Sehar rolled her eyes playfully. “Looks like I’m outnumbered.”

“Don’t worry, Mama,” Raazi chimed in. “I’ll make you a crown. It’ll say ‘Queen of Pancakes.’”

Hamza burst out laughing while Sehar shook her head, trying to hide her amusement. “See? This is exactly why he gets three pancakes.”

Later that day, Hamza and Raazi were in the backyard, kicking a soccer ball back and forth. Iram sat on a picnic blanket nearby, arranging her tea set, while Sehar watched from the patio.

“Come on, Papa, is that all you’ve got?” Raazi teased, dribbling the ball past Hamza.

“Don’t get cocky, champ,” Hamza replied, stealing the ball back with a swift move.

“Lucky shot,” Raazi muttered, narrowing his eyes.

Sehar laughed. “Looks like someone’s taking after your competitive streak, Hamza.”

Hamza smirked. “At least he didn’t inherit your aim.”

Sehar gasped, feigning offense. “Excuse me, but I can hit a target just fine.”

“Oh yeah? Prove it,” Hamza challenged, tossing her the ball.

Sehar stepped onto the lawn, narrowing her eyes at Hamza as she positioned herself. She kicked the ball with all her might—and it sailed straight into Hamza’s chest, making him stumble back a step.

“Bullseye,” Sehar said smugly, brushing her hands off.

Raazi doubled over laughing. “Mama got you good, Papa!”

Hamza rubbed his chest, grinning. “Alright, I’ll admit, that was impressive. But don’t get used to it.”

Iram clapped her hands. “Mama’s the best!”

Hamza picked Iram up and twirled her around. “No, you’re the best, princess.”

“I’m better than Raazi?” she asked, her eyes wide.

Hamza winked. “Always.”

“Hey!” Raazi protested, crossing his arms.

Sehar ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry, you’re still my favorite troublemaker.”

That evening, after the kids were tucked into bed, Sehar and Hamza sat on the couch, sipping tea.

“You know,” Hamza began, “I think we need to have a talk with Raazi about his smart mouth. He’s getting too good at these comebacks.”

Sehar raised an eyebrow. “Oh, and who does that remind you of?”

“You,” Hamza said without hesitation.

Sehar laughed. “I think it’s adorable. He’s just expressing himself.”

Hamza leaned back, groaning. “You think it’s adorable now, but wait until he starts using those quips on his teachers. Then we’ll have a problem.”

Sehar smirked. “Well, maybe he’ll end up in debate club. He’ll win every argument.”

Hamza shook his head, smiling. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you married me.”

Hamza set his mug down and leaned closer, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Worst decision of my life.”

Sehar gasped, feigning offense. “Take that back!”

“Make me,” he challenged.

Sehar grabbed a cushion and smacked him with it, laughing as he caught it and pulled her into his arms.

“Okay, okay, I take it back,” Hamza said, grinning. “Marrying you was the best decision of my life. Happy?”

Sehar pretended to think for a moment. “Hmm… I suppose I can forgive you.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, enjoying each other’s company.

“You know,” Hamza said softly, “I never thought life could be this good. A beautiful wife, amazing kids… I’m a lucky man.”

Sehar smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. “And I’m a lucky woman. Even if you are insufferable sometimes.”

Hamza chuckled. “It’s part of my charm.”

As the night wore on, the house grew quiet, but the laughter and love that filled it remained, a testament to the beautiful life they had built together.