The Silent Burden

She was called the pride of the family—a beacon of tradition and honor. Yet, in the quiet corners of her life, Meher often wondered if pride was just another word for obligation. From the moment she could understand the world, she felt the invisible weight pressing down on her shoulders, a weight that grew heavier with every passing year.

In her parents’ home, Meher was seen as a gift, but one wrapped in fragility. Decisions were made for her, not with her. Her voice, soft yet resolute, often drowned in the cacophony of “what will people say?” She learned early that being a daughter meant learning the art of silence. When injustice came her way, she was told to endure. "A daughter must adjust," they’d say, as though sacrifice was stitched into her very being.

When friends and relatives crossed lines, her parents avoided confrontation. "She’s strong; she’ll manage," they reassured themselves. But what strength were they speaking of? The strength to swallow indignities without protest? The strength to smile when her heart screamed for justice?

Meher bore it all—the criticisms, the unsolicited advice, the unspoken rules. She grew into a young woman, shaped by restraint and expectations, always being reminded that this was temporary. "Once you’re married, it will all be different," they promised. Marriage, the grand solution to a daughter’s existence.

And then the day came. The house buzzed with excitement, and Meher, adorned in crimson and gold, became the center of their celebrations. The rituals, the music, the laughter—all seemed to signify a joyous beginning. But for Meher, it felt more like a quiet ending. As her father handed her over to another man, his voice choked with emotion, there was an unspoken relief in his eyes. "Now, she is his responsibility."

In her new home, Meher faced a different set of expectations. Her husband, a kind yet burdened man, became her shield, her spokesperson, her supposed savior. Whenever conflicts arose, it was him they turned to. "He must provide for her," they said. "He must protect her."

No one asked Meher what she could do, what she wanted, or how she felt. The world seemed to believe that her life, her very essence, was tied to the shoulders of the men around her—her father before marriage, her husband after. She was no longer just Meher; she was a role, a responsibility, an expectation.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. Before marriage, no one stood for her. After marriage, everyone expected her husband to. It was as though she existed only as a reflection of the men in her life, never as a person in her own right.

Meher’s agony was not loud or dramatic. It was the quiet despair of a life lived in shadows, the unspoken grief of being unseen. She carried it with grace, as daughters are taught to do. But inside, she longed for someone to see her—not as a daughter, a wife, or a responsibility, but as a woman with dreams, strength, and a voice that deserved to be heard.

Her story is not hers alone. It is the story of countless daughters who navigate a world that values their silence over their strength, their sacrifice over their happiness. And yet, in the quiet resilience of women like Meher lies a hope—that one day, daughters will no longer be burdens to be carried or responsibilities to be passed on. They will simply be seen, valued, and loved for who they are.