Sabeen: With Evidence

Zara was sixteen when the evidence began to pile up like contrails. She woke to the soft click of the front door at 12:03 a.m.—the same sound that ended every “client dinner.” She lay still, counting the familiar choreography: heels off in the hallway (two muted thuds), the fridge opening, the kettle’s low hum. Mum thought she was asleep. Zara had perfected the art of pretending. She was sixteen, not stupid.

Downstairs, Sabeen moved like a ghost in cashmere socks. Zara watched through the banister slats sometimes, cataloguing details the way her history teacher said spies did: the faint scent of a man’s cologne that wasn’t Dad’s, the way Mum’s lipstick was always freshly reapplied even at midnight, the Uber receipts she “forgot” in coat pockets. Zara had started a private note on her phone titled Evidence. Not because she wanted to confront anyone—God, no—but because numbers made chaos bearable. Thirty-seven late nights since January. Four different postcodes in the Uber history. One Dorchester keycard she’d found in the laundry, still warm from the dryer.

But the real discovery came on a Tuesday in March, when Dad was meant to be in Singapore. Zara had come home early from school—period cramps, a forged note—and found the house empty. She’d gone to Dad’s study to borrow his noise-cancelling headphones and found his iPad open on the desk. The screen was locked, but the preview showed a WhatsApp chat with a contact saved as “Ayesha 🛫”. The last message: Suite 2412. Bring the gin. And the red lingerie. Sent at 02:17 local time. Singapore time.

Zara’s stomach dropped. She knew Ayesha—pretty, twenty-eight, always laughing at Dad’s jokes in the crew bus. She’d once asked Zara about uni applications, all dimples and perfume. Now Zara pictured her in red lace, Dad’s hands on her hips, the same hands that had built her a treehouse when she was eight. She unlocked the iPad with Dad’s birthday—same as Mum’s MacBook password, SaadZara1999—and opened the chat.

The messages were explicit. Photos too. Ayesha on her knees in a hotel bathroom, lips stretched around Dad’s cock, his pilot’s cap tilted rakishly. Another of her bent over a balcony in Muscat, skirt hiked up, Dad’s handprint red on her arse. Voice notes in Urdu: “Tumhari zubaan kitni garam hai, captain sahib.” Dad’s reply: “Abhi toh shuruat hai.” Zara’s cheeks burned. She’d heard that tone before—Dad teasing Mum over breakfast, but never like this. Never this hungry.

She scrolled further. Priya in Singapore, bent over a hotel desk, Dad’s tie around her wrists. A stewardess named Noor in Nairobi, riding him reverse cowgirl, her moans recorded and sent with a winking emoji. The dates lined up with Dad’s layovers. The gifts too—Cartier bracelets, silk scarves, a pair of Louboutins in Ayesha’s size. Zara recognised the red soles. Mum had the same pair.

She sat back, heart hammering. The evidence was overwhelming. Dad wasn’t just flirting at arrivals; he was fucking his way across continents. And Mum—Mum with her late nights and secret accounts—wasn’t the only one playing. They were both liars. Both cheaters. Both… matched.

Zara didn’t cry. She copied the photos to her phone, then deleted the evidence from Dad’s iPad. She wasn’t sure why. Blackmail? Proof? Or just to hold the secret like a live grenade. She spent the afternoon in bed, headphones on, replaying the images in her mind. Dad’s cock—thick, veined, slick with Ayesha’s saliva. The way he’d gripped her hair, the same way he gripped Mum’s when he thought Zara wasn’t looking. The way Ayesha’s eyes had watered, but she’d kept going, eager, worshipful.

That night, Mum came home late again, smelling of oud and sex. She kissed Zara’s forehead, asked about revision. Zara smiled, said nothing. Dad FaceTimed from Singapore, voice crackling: “Tell your mum I love her.” Zara passed the phone over, watched Mum’s face soften. “Love you too, jaan.” The lie was perfect.

Zara built small rebellions. Skipped the paratha, ate toast. Stopped wearing the emerald studs. When Mum asked why, she said they were “too adult.” The lie tasted like metal. She followed Mum once, to Canary Wharf, watched her laugh with a man whose wedding ring glinted. She followed Dad’s roster, noted the layovers, the cities. She became a cartographer of betrayal.

Some nights she imagined telling them. Pictured Mum’s face when she showed the photos, Dad’s when she revealed the Uber receipts. But the fantasy always crumbled. They’d deny. Or worse—they’d laugh. You think we don’t know, beta? The thought chilled her.

Instead, she kept the evidence. Kept watching. Kept pretending. The glow-in-the-dark stars on her ceiling peeled one by one. She pressed them back, but the adhesive was failing. Like everything else.