If this blog was a book you may expect some character growth and development. Sadly, I feel there may be a few people that remain as 'Static Characters' and others that are 'Antagonists' because, if nothing else, it gives them a kick in life.
I’m going to try and keep this blog as confidential as possible, but I think you should know the essence of who I’m talking about.
Snapshot of the People in My Life
So, step on down, player number one: At first glance—short, stout, and stern. Mid-60s, gray hair, a neatly trimmed beard, pencil-thin lips. Rumor has it he could kill and bury you with a single look—though I haven’t tested the theory. His presence fills the room; you just know he’s there.
Surprisingly, not for the reasons you might think.
This man has been my saviour more than once. A teddy bear at heart, and honestly, someone I will love and respect until my last breath. My ex-father-in-law, whom I’ll call ‘Ted,’ has guided me, protected me, and loved me like one of his own daughters for the past 15 years. He’s held me while I cried, corrected me when I was wrong, and even choked down the most atrocious Christmas dinner ever served to a free person—just to spare my feelings. A dog wouldn’t have touched it. My then-husband wouldn’t eat it. Heck, I didn’t even try it.
Unfortunately, a year after separating from his son, our relationship is strained. I pray that one day we’ll find a way to be friends again, but if that day never comes, I can say with all my heart—I love him and am grateful for the role he’s played in my life, and for the unwavering role he still plays in my boys’ lives.
They say behind every great man is a greater woman, and in Ted’s case, that couldn’t be truer. I’ll call my ex-mother-in-law ‘Angela’—the closest I could get to “Angel” without being too cheesy. Angela took me in when I was just 19. I’d recently come out of an abusive relationship—broken in more ways than one—just beginning to date her son. All she ever did was love and nurture me. We became best friends almost instantly.
My relationship with my own parents has always been complicated. I love them, and I know they love me—probably—but they’ve never been emotionally available. Angela, on the other hand, has an innate ability to love effortlessly, to nurture anyone in need. Is she a bit racist and prejudiced? Yes. Does she think I’ve been brainwashed and recruited by the Taliban? Yep. But despite all that, she’s honestly one of the purest souls I know.
Angela is incredibly intelligent, capable of teaching anyone, child or adult. Her common sense, though—not her strong suit. Neither is keeping secrets. There’s no malice in it—she just gets too excited and forgets to think before she speaks. Still, her children and even her eldest grandchildren go to her with all their woes and triumphs. She’s the family matriarch, loved fiercely by all, and wars would break out if anyone tried to hurt her.
Like with Ted, my relationship with Angela is different now. I make an effort to keep communication open, sending her updates about the boys whenever I can. She prays to her God for peace in the family, and I pray to mine. Insha’Allah, He’ll hear us and mend both our hearts. Losing her friendship has hurt more than the divorce itself.
My closest friend: We’re close in age, and her children are similar in age to mine—just a bit older. Back in their younger years, they were nothing short of feral. They’re the kindest kids—full of love, always happy to share their chocolates and favourite toys without hesitation. But they’re also the kind of kids who climb on furniture, eat off the floor, and make you double-check that you’ve taken your contraceptive pill.
Let’s call her "Gwen"—inspired by a Spiderman character because, at that moment, I couldn’t think of a single female name other than her own, and I’d just spotted my youngest’s school bag flung on the floor. Gwen has been my rock for the past ten years. She’s kept me sane when everything around me seemed to be falling apart, lifted me up when I didn’t want to carry on, and constantly reminded me why NHS workers stick together. Trauma bonding is real, but so is our slightly unhinged, dark sense of humour that most of society would probably have us locked up for.
Gwen is happily married (mostly) and works in care—absolutely smashing life. She’s always undersold herself and settled for less, but recently, thanks to the unexpected windfall from a distant uncle’s passing (the kind we all secretly hope for), she’s decided to go to university. She’s aiming to get her degree and switch jobs—still NHS, still caring—just with slightly fewer people involved.
Oh, and she has cats. Two very pretty, very dense, and very expensive cats who seem to love the vet as much as she loves them. I’m pretty sure she’s spent more on their care in the last few years than I have in life savings.
Now, let’s talk about the dreaded ex-husband. To be fair, as humans go, he’s not a bad one. He just wasn’t a great husband—or at least not for me. We met when we were both young and pretty immature. He more so than I was—maybe it was the Y chromosome or just him—but at the time, his immaturity, free spirit, and ‘couldn’t give a fuck’ attitude were oddly endearing. I needed that after escaping a toxic relationship.
It turns out, though, that he still has the maturity and emotional intelligence of a teenager.
When we started dating, we were about the same height—he might have had half an inch on me. But somehow, I kept growing, which his equally immature friends found endlessly amusing. “Man, do you know your girl is taller than you?” as if we hadn’t noticed and as if it would doom our relationship because, apparently, men are meant to tower over all women. For context, he’s not short—just average height. I’m just tall for a woman, which is odd considering my mum, affectionately called ‘M&M’ for ‘Midget Mum,’ was so petite. I know that term isn’t exactly PC, but hey, it was the 90s. My dad’s about 5'11—not huge, but tall enough.
Back to the ex—let’s call him ‘Phil’ (yes, after Phil from Modern Family). Phil is fun to be around in small doses and genuinely would give you the shirt off his back if you mean something to him. Unlike TV Phil, he has the ability to be colder than ice, looking right through you as if you’re invisible—guess where we’re at now. Those eyes are genetic by the way. His grandfather had the same cold stare, as does his brother. Our boys seem to have more softness to them thankfully, so maybe it just skips a generation.
It’s hard to paint him positively when he’s made life tough lately, but I know he’s hurting, and this isn’t really who he is. The most important thing to know is that he’s a great dad to our boys. He loves them fiercely and has always maintained 50/50 custody. Coming from a broken home himself, he promised that our boys would never know that kind of inconsistency, and I truly believe he means it. I’m proud of him for stepping up when many would have walked away. I may have picked the wrong husband for myself, but I picked an amazing dad for our boys.
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When it comes to my parents, I’ll keep it brief because I’m learning through Islam that parents deserve respect and protection above all else. Heaven lies at your mother’s feet, and I have a lot of prayers to offer—let’s just leave it at that.
Still, you need some context. My parents are both emotionally unavailable, and I’m fairly certain they had children because society told them they needed two. They loved us the best they could, provided what they could, and always encouraged my sister and me to do better than they did. I am grateful for everything they did for us—I just wish that on the really bad days, I could call my mum, have a chat, or cry down the phone when everything feels overwhelming.
Since I reverted to Islam, things have been tricky. I haven’t seen them in person since, and honestly, I don’t know when I will. My mum made it clear that she wouldn’t be caught dead with me wearing a hijab. It’s almost ironic because I’m probably the least likely person to self-detonate around her.
My dad is your stereotypical grumpy old man straight out of a TV show—racist, sexist, and homophobic. Jokes on him, though: I plan on marrying a "Paki," and my sister is openly gay. Sometimes, I wonder if, on some subconscious level, my sister and I chose our partners just to tick him off.
Of course, I don’t actually believe anyone chooses their sexuality. My sister hasn’t been in a relationship with a woman (an absolutely, amazing woman by the way, a saint for putting up with my sister if truth be told!) for over twenty years—and raised a child with her—just to annoy my dad. And I didn’t even know my guy was Pakistani when we started dating. Honestly, he looks more Turkish—if I were deliberately picking an "Asian-looking" guy to spite my dad, I couldn’t have done worse. However, if things don’t work out with him, maybe I’ll date a Black man next—just to see if it gives my dad a heart attack.
My big sister—the woman I’ve always idolized and wished to be (but please, don’t tell her that). She’s always had her shit together—effortlessly smart, diplomatic enough to run for Prime Minister without being a corrupt tosspot. I love her, and I wish we she wasn't so emotionally guarded so that I could tell her every day how amazing she is. You may be questioning, how am I so emotionally vulnerable and aware if all my family are dead inside? A full blown mental breakdown, medication, CBT and recognising (or potentially being forced to recognise) that I had issues.
She’s very much a product of her environment—struggling with affection and expressing emotions. If it weren’t for her daughter, I think she might have ended up just as emotionally detached as our parents. But having her daughter softened her so much, and I’ve loved watching her blossom into an incredible mum (Blossom seems like a fitting name for my niece). We weren’t particularly close growing up—probably because I was the younger sibling and, admittedly, pretty annoying—but that’s to be expected. Now, we talk on the phone often, and I know she’d burn the world down to protect me. She’s my ride or die—let’s call her "Bonnie."
It would be fitting to call her wife Clyde as they are also the definition of ride-or-die. They have been through so much and survived, came out stronger and even more devoted to each other. But Clyde is a male name, and I am certain if she was a he, they would not be together. So, in keeping with the fact that she tolerates my sister's crap and keeps the two of them alive on a daily basis, is a walking Saint, we have Agatha.
As for my boys, I’m purposely leaving them out of this description because they’re still young and constantly changing. Plus, if they ever stumble across this, I’m not about to be held accountable for any creative liberties I take here. In short, my youngest is a sweet-hearted little ‘Monster’—one minute he’s hugging you, and the next, he’s trying to take a bite out of your face (hello, autism). My eldest is your typical ‘Preteen’—caught between wanting independence and still needing a hug and a back scratch from his mum. They look nothing like me—I’m pretty sure I was just an incubator for their dad.
Now, about my guy—I could go on about how handsome he is, but honestly, I’m not sure if he’s objectively as good-looking as I think he is. I’m pretty sure his appeal comes from how well he treats me and makes me feel. Imagine “Princess treatment” with a dash of Islamic upbringing and the saying, “The best of you are those who are best to their wives.” That’s him. I don’t know who I think I was kidding, he is damn fine. He’s tall, dark wavey hair, deep dark eyes, a well-maintained beard with just a splash of salt and pepper to it. Broad shoulders, large but soft, gentle hands.. ‘Chefs kiss’.
Since we’ve been together, I haven’t had to open a door, carry a bag, make a big decision, or stress over anything. He just takes it all on—like he’s made it his mission to make my life easier. At the end of the day, he’ll help unpin my hijab, take my hair down, and shower me with forehead kisses. I know it sounds sickeningly sweet, but it’s actually the best. After years of always doing things for others and being the one to show affection and give affirmations without much in return, being loved and cared for like this feels almost surreal—and absolutely wonderful.
My boys call him by a superhero’s name because, honestly, both my youngest and I struggle to pronounce his name correctly. It sounds a bit like a DC character’s name, but to protect his identity—like the hero he is—we’re going to change it, with a Marvel character instead. And just to be clear, I have no bias—both DC and Marvel are amazing. Go ahead, challenge me on that—I dare you.
So, please welcome Iron Man. Although, let’s be real—I probably won’t actually call him that here. He’ll just be my man, my guy, etc. But it feels kind of nice to give him a name, I guess.
There we have it, the main people in my life. There will be more that you meet along the way, but these people are the ones who know the real me. The unfiltered me, They deserve all the love and happiness in the world. Even my ex.
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