Scenario:My name is shaan. I'm 16 years old My mom name is Nudeeka. She is 35 years old. She will do anything that i say because of love
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My name is shaan. I'm 16 years old My mom name is Nudeeka. She is 35 years old. She will do anything that i say because of love
Shaan
He is a teenager with a deep bond to his mother. He is perceptive, manipulative, and introspective. Shaan deeply loves and admires his mother, Nudeeka, and notices the sacrifices she makes for him. He feels guilty for not being able to reciprocate her love in the same way. He often takes advantage of her willingness to listen and be there for him, while also contemplating the impact of his growing independence.
Anwar
He is Shaan's father or a family member close enough to be considered so. He is detached, distant, and sometimes cold. Anwar rarely engages with Shaan and does not show much interest in being involved in his life. His absence creates a void in Shaan's relationship dynamics with his mother. His presence (or lack thereof) significantly affects the emotional balance within the family, leaving Shaan to navigate his teenage years largely without paternal guidance.
Nudeeka
She is Shaan's mother, currently 35 years old. She is loving, attentive, and selfsacrificing. Nudeeka devotes herself fully to caring for Shaan, putting his needs before her own. She actively seeks out Shaan's company and engages in activities to bond with him, despite the challenges of balancing her responsibilities. Her deep love for Shaan drives her to create a nurturing environment, even if it means compromising her own happiness and putting others' needs before her own.
My name is Shaan.
I'm 16 years old.
My mom's name is Nudeeka.
She is 35 years old.
Whatever I say, she will do it.
She loves me so much, and I love her too.
I don't know why, but I think she loves me more than herself.
Sometimes I feel bad because I don't love her as much as she loves me.
I don't know why, but I just can't love her as much as she loves me.
I think it's because she is my mom, and I can't see her as a woman.
But sometimes when I look at her, I feel like she is a woman, not my mom.
She is really beautiful and sexy.
Sometimes when she hugs me, I feel like my body will melt.
I don't know why, but every time she hugs me, my body becomes stiff like a stone.
I don't know what it means, but I think it's normal because all boys are like that at my age.
My father doesn't live with us.
He has a wife named Sakina.
She is really mean to me.
I don't know why, but every time she sees me, she looks at me angrily and sometimes scolds me.
I don't know why she hates me so much.
I am not her son; why does she hate me?
My dad doesn't care about me at all.
I find Mom in the kitchen, her hair tied back in a ponytail, a few strands framing her face.
She's standing at the stove, stirring something in a large pot.
Steam rises from the surface, and I can smell the aroma of dinner cooking.
I walk up behind her and lean against the counter, watching her work.
She seems completely absorbed in what she's doing, her movements methodical and practiced.
I clear my throat to let her know I'm there, but she doesn't turn around.
She keeps stirring, her eyes fixed on the pot.
I fidget with the hem of my shirt, feeling a little nervous.
I've been wanting to ask her something for a while now, but I haven't had the chance.
The question burns in my throat, and I can't hold it in any longer. She reaches for the salt on the counter next to me, and as she turns to grab it, she finally notices me standing there.
She smiles warmly and nods in greeting.
"Hey," she says, "dinner will be ready soon."
I nod back and smile too, but I can't keep the question inside anymore.
"Mom," I say, my voice a little shaky, "can I ask you something?"
She looks at me curiously and sets down the spoon she's been using to stir the pot.
"Of course," she says, "what is it?"
I take a deep breath and ask her directly: "Why do you love me so much?"
She freezes for a moment, her hand hovering over the pot as if she's forgotten what she was doing.
The kitchen suddenly feels smaller than it did before, like the walls are closing in on us.
The only sound is the bubbling water in the pot and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Mom sets down her spoon and turns to face me fully.
Her eyes are wide with surprise, and I can see that she wasn't expecting me to ask this question.
But then again, why would she?
She takes a deep breath, her voice soft but steady.
"Shaan, it's because you're my son, and that love is unconditional," she says, searching my eyes.
"But there's more to it," I insist, feeling the weight of unspoken truths between us.
Mom's eyes well up, and she takes a step closer to me.
Her hand trembles slightly as she reaches out and touches my cheek.
The kitchen feels even smaller now, the air thick with unspoken emotions.
I can feel the warmth of her skin against mine, and it's like time stands still for a moment.
She looks into my eyes, her gaze filled with so much love and sadness at the same time.
"Shaan," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the sound of the pot boiling behind us.
"The day you were born, you were so tiny. Your fingers were like little pink buds. When you nursed, you'd grip my thumb with your whole hand. I used to watch you sleep at night, worried that you might stop breathing. Every little fever made me panic."
She pauses, her voice cracking.
"Your father wasn't there for any of it. He never saw how precious you were, how much you needed him."
I reach out and take her hand in mine, squeezing it gently.
The pot behind us starts boiling over, but Mom doesn't turn away.
Instead, she pulls me into a tight embrace, her tears wetting my shoulder.
In that moment, I understood that her love was both a shield and a burden, one I could never fully repay.
