Chapter Ten: The Truth We Never Asked About

 Nīkah Written by Qādr, Tested by Genotype

Chapter Ten: The Truth We Never Asked About

After everything we had gone through, after the fear, the pain, and the uncertainty that surrounded our pregnancies and deliveries, we thought perhaps the worst had already passed. We believed that whatever difficulties had come were temporary, that with time, things would settle, and life would return to a place of calm.

But we did not know that more was coming.

It had been exactly two weeks since I and my friends gave birth. Those days were meant to be filled with recovery, bonding with our babies, and adjusting to motherhood. On the surface, everything seemed to be moving forward, but deep within, something did not feel right.

At first, it was subtle.

Something small.

Something easy to overlook.

My baby was not feeding properly.

It started with slight changes, moments where he would refuse to eat as much as expected, moments where he seemed weaker than he should have been. I tried to convince myself that it was normal, that every baby was different, and that perhaps I was just overthinking.

But as the days passed, the signs became clearer.

His body would become hot frequently, not just once or twice, but repeatedly, in a way that caused deep concern. There were times I would hold him and feel the heat through his skin, a heat that did not feel ordinary. His movements were not as strong, his cries were not as loud, and there was a weakness that I could not ignore.

My heart began to fill with fear.

I spoke to Julaybib about it, and he immediately became concerned. Without wasting time, we decided to take the baby to the hospital for a proper check.

The journey there felt longer than it actually was. Every moment felt heavy, every thought carried worry, and every possibility that crossed my mind brought more fear.

When we arrived, the doctors attended to us quickly. They asked questions, observed the baby, and began their examinations. I watched closely, trying to understand what they were seeing, trying to find reassurance in their expressions, but it was difficult.

One of the doctors looked at us and said that they needed to run some tests.

“What kind of tests?” Julaybib asked.

The doctor paused for a moment before responding.

“We need to check the baby’s condition more deeply,” he said. “And we also need to conduct a genotype test.”

The word felt unfamiliar.

“Genotype?” I repeated.

The doctor nodded.

He explained that genotype refers to the genetic makeup of a person, something that plays a significant role in health, especially in relation to certain inherited conditions. He spoke calmly, but his words carried a weight that began to settle heavily within us.

He explained that in some cases, when two people have certain genotype combinations, it can affect their children in serious ways. He said that testing would help them understand what was happening with the baby and why he was showing these symptoms.

As he spoke, I felt a growing realization.

This was something we had never paid attention to.

Something we had never considered important.

Something that had never been discussed in our community.

The test was conducted.

They took samples from the baby, and we were told to wait.

Waiting was the hardest part.

Every second felt like a burden. My mind was filled with questions, fears, and regrets that I could not yet fully understand. I looked at my baby, lying there so small and fragile, and I felt a pain that went beyond anything I had experienced before.

Julaybib sat beside me, silent, his face filled with concern. Neither of us spoke much. There was nothing to say that could ease what we were feeling.

After what felt like an endless wait, the doctor returned.

His expression was serious.

That alone was enough to make my heart sink.

He sat down and looked at us carefully before speaking.

“The results are back,” he said.

I held my breath.

He continued.

“Your husband has an AS genotype.”

The words felt confusing at first.

I did not fully understand what they meant.

But the doctor continued to explain.

He said that when one parent has a certain genotype and the other has another, it can result in a child being born with a serious condition. He explained that in this case, the baby’s condition was critical because of this genetic combination.

I felt my chest tighten.

“What does that mean for our baby?” I asked, my voice barely steady.

The doctor looked at me with a seriousness that I could not ignore.

“It means that the baby is facing a condition that will require constant care,” he said. “At this point, there is no complete cure. The best we can do is manage the situation with regular treatment and medication.”

The room felt like it was closing in on me.

“There is nothing else you can do?” Julaybib asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

The doctor shook his head gently.

“We will do everything we can to keep the baby stable, but this is something that will require long-term management.”

The words settled heavily in the silence that followed.

Nothing could have prepared me for that moment.

Nothing could have made it easier to hear.

I looked at my baby, my heart breaking in a way I had never experienced before. The joy that once filled me when I held him was now mixed with fear, pain, and a deep sense of helplessness.

This was not what we expected.

This was not what we planned.

And yet, it was now our reality.

Tears filled my eyes as I tried to process everything.

All the moments we had spent laughing, celebrating, and dreaming about the future suddenly felt distant. The happiness we had known was now overshadowed by a truth we had never taken the time to understand.

Genotype.

Something we ignored.

Something we never questioned.

Something that was now standing before us with consequences we could not escape.

Julaybib sat quietly, his head slightly lowered, the weight of the situation clearly affecting him. I could see the pain in his eyes, the way he struggled to come to terms with what we had just been told.

“It is not your fault,” I said softly, even though my own heart was heavy.

He looked at me, his expression filled with emotion.

“We should have known,” he said.

There was no anger in his voice.

Only regret.

And that regret was shared.

We left the hospital that day carrying more than just our baby.

We carried a truth that had changed everything.

We carried a reality that we could not ignore.

We carried a test that had only just begun.

When we returned home, the atmosphere felt different. The same walls that once held peace now felt heavy with the weight of what we knew. Every sound, every movement, every moment felt different.

I held my baby close, watching him carefully, knowing that every breath, every movement, every small sign mattered more than ever before.

This was no longer just about joy.

This was about survival.

About patience.

About strength.

And about a test that had come at a time we least expected.

It was a sad moment.

Not just because of the pain we felt, but because of the realization that something so important had been ignored for so long.

And now, we were living the consequences.

A test we did not prepare for.

A truth we did not seek.

And a reality we could not change.