Zainab had never seen the world, but she could feel its cruelty with every breath she took.
She was born blind into a family that valued beauty above all else. Her two sisters were admired for their captivating eyes and graceful figures, while Zainab was treated as a burden, a shameful secret locked away behind closed doors.
Her mother died when she was only five, and from then on her father changed. He grew bitter, resentful, and cruel—especially toward her. He never called her by her name; he called her “that thing.” He didn’t want her at the table during family meals or anywhere nearby when guests arrived. He believed she was cursed, and when Zainab turned 21, he made a decision that would destroy what was left of her already broken heart.
One morning, her father entered her small room, where Zainab sat quietly running her fingers over the raised dots of a worn Braille book. He dropped a folded piece of fabric into her lap.
“You’re getting married tomorrow,” he said flatly.
Zainab froze. The words made no sense. Married? To whom?
“He’s a beggar from the mosque,” her father continued. “You’re blind, he’s poor. A good match for you.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. She wanted to scream, but no sound came. She had no choice. Her father never gave her choices.
The next day she was married in a small, rushed ceremony. Of course, she never saw his face, and no one dared describe it to her. Her father shoved her toward the man and told her to take his arm. She obeyed, like a ghost inside her own body. People laughed behind their hands, whispering: “The blind girl and the beggar.”
After the ceremony, her father gave her a small bag with some clothes and pushed her again toward the man.
“She’s your problem now,” he said, walking away without looking back.
The beggar, whose name was Yusha, led her silently down the road. He said nothing for a long while. They arrived at a broken little hut on the edge of the village. It smelled of damp earth and smoke.
“It’s not much,” Yusha said softly. “But you’ll be safe here.”
She sat on the old mat inside, holding back tears. This was her life now. A blind girl married to a beggar, in a hut made of mud and hope.
But something strange happened that first night.
Yusha brewed her tea with gentle hands. He gave her his own coat and slept by the door, like a guard dog protecting his queen. He spoke to her as though she mattered—asking what stories she liked, what dreams she had, what foods made her smile. No one had ever asked her such things before.
Days turned into weeks. Every morning, Yusha walked her to the river, describing the sun, the birds, the trees with such poetry that Zainab began to feel she could see them through his words. He sang to her as she washed clothes and told her stories of stars and distant lands at night. She laughed for the first time in years. Her heart began to open. And in that strange little hut, something unexpected happened: Zainab fell in love.
One afternoon, as she reached for his hand, she asked:
“Were you always a beggar?”
He hesitated. Then said softly:
“Not always.”
But he never explained more. And Zainab didn’t insist.
Until one day.
She went to the market alone to buy vegetables. Yusha had given her careful directions, and she memorized each step. But halfway there, someone grabbed her arm violently.
“Blind rat!” spat a voice.
It was her sister. Aminah.
“Still alive? Still pretending to be the wife of a beggar?”
Zainab felt tears rise but stood tall.
“I’m happy,” she said.
Aminah laughed cruelly.
“You don’t even know what he looks like. He’s trash. Just like you.”
Then she whispered something that shattered Zainab.
“He’s not a beggar. Zainab, you’ve been lied to.”
Zainab stumbled back home, confused. She waited until nightfall, and when Yusha returned, she asked again—this time with firmness.
“Tell me the truth. Who are you really?”
He knelt before her, took her hands, and said:
“You weren’t meant to know yet. But I can’t lie to you anymore.”
Her heart pounded.
He drew a deep breath.
“I’m not a beggar. I am the son of the Emir.”
Zainab’s world spun as she processed his words. “The son of the Emir.” Her mind raced back over every moment they had shared—his kindness, his strength, his vivid stories too rich for a mere beggar—and suddenly it all made sense. He had never been a beggar. Her father had married her not to a pauper, but to royalty disguised in rags.
She pulled her hands away, voice trembling:
“Why? Why did you let me believe you were a beggar?”
Yusha stood, his voice calm but heavy with emotion.
“Because I wanted someone who would see me—not my wealth, not my title. Just me. Someone pure. Someone whose love could not be bought. You were everything I had prayed for, Zainab.”
Her heart battled between anger and love. Why hadn’t he told her? Why had he let her feel discarded like trash?
Yusha knelt again.
“I never wanted to hurt you. I came disguised because I was tired of women who loved the throne but not the man. Then I heard of a blind girl, rejected by her own father. I watched you from afar for weeks before approaching him under disguise. I knew he would accept, because he wanted to be rid of you.”
Tears rolled down Zainab’s cheeks. The pain of her father’s rejection mingled with the shock of Yusha’s truth. She whispered:
“And now? What happens now?”
Yusha clasped her hand gently.
“Now you come with me—to my world, to the palace.”
Her heart leapt.
“But I am blind. How can I be a princess?”
He smiled.
“You already are, my princess.”
The next morning, a royal carriage stood outside their hut. Guards in black and gold bowed before Yusha and Zainab. She gripped his arm tightly as the carriage rolled toward the palace.
When they arrived, the crowd gasped. The lost prince had returned—but with a blind girl at his side. The Queen studied Zainab closely, her eyes sharp. Zainab bowed humbly. Yusha stood firm beside her and declared:
“This is my wife—the woman I chose. The woman who saw my soul when no one else could.”
The Queen was silent for a moment, then stepped forward and embraced Zainab.
“Then she is my daughter,” she said.
Zainab nearly collapsed in relief. Yusha whispered:
“I told you, you are safe.”
That night, standing by the palace window, Zainab listened to the sounds of the royal court. Her life had changed in a single day. No longer “that thing” hidden away. She was a wife, a princess, a woman loved not for her beauty but for her soul.
Yet she knew shadows remained—the hatred of her father, the whispers of the court. But for the first time, she felt powerful.
The next day, Yusha declared before the court:
“I will not be crowned until my wife is accepted and honored. If she is not, I leave with her.”
The hall fell silent.
The Queen rose and proclaimed:
“From this day forward, Zainab is not only his wife—she is Princess Zainab of the Royal House. To disrespect her is to dishonor the crown.”
Respect replaced ridicule. Zainab’s heart beat fast—not with fear, but with strength.
She began to use her voice in the court, listening, advising, and uniting. Slowly, nobles respected her not for her title, but for her wisdom.
Zainab had ceased to be just the blind daughter once hidden away. She had become the queen of her own destiny. And beside her, Yusha remained her unwavering support.
Together, they built a kingdom not ruled by appearances, but by love, acceptance, and true strength.
Because in the end, Zainab learned that love is not about what the eyes can see, but what the heart can hold.
