She packed her bags at midnight, leaving only the silver wedding ring and a note that read: "I refuse to shrink just to fit into your family's blueprint of a quiet wife."
She sent back my house keys inside a small Ankara purse, exactly three days after I said, "Let’s take a break." No note. Just the cold metal reminding me how fast a shared future can be packed into a stranger's nylon.
What you take for granted, someone else is praying for. You complain about another day, while someone else would give anything for the chance to see the sunrise again. Sometimes, we become so accustomed to our blessings that we forget their value, mistaking what is familiar for what is ordinary.