Maybe
By: Muhammadiyeve Sevinch
…Something inside him broke. A father’s pride. “Maybe, if my father were here now, he would indeed be proud of me,” he thought.
When Murad left them, Sardor (Quvonch) was 2 years old, so he doesn’t remember him. His mother Mashxura never mentioned his name, nor did she want to talk about him. After all, she had married for love and believed she would have a happy life with him. Everything had started beautifully. When Quvonch was born, they were so happy that they would talk all night about their dreams and hopes for the future. Because he brought great joy and strengthened their bond, his father named him Quvonch. This name means happiness. But over time, Murad’s character changed. Mashxura’s nagging irritated him, and his affection for her diminished day by day. He no longer saw the beauty of Mashxura and their love faded. That’s why he started talking more with Nasiba, a plain woman at his workplace who had recently divorced. Despite her appearance, Nasiba’s words and kindness won Murad over. Gradually, their relationship became serious.
That fateful day. When Murad didn’t come home that night, Mashxura waited for him at the door, crying and bombarding him with questions. Their “conversation” turned into mutual accusations. Their shouting woke up little Quvonch, he sat at the bedroom door and he was crying. The happiness was crying. That day, Murad left the house, abandoning his young wife and budding family, to live with Nasiba.
Since he could remember, our protagonist had been called Sardor. When his father left, he took joy with him, and because his mother didn’t want to remember her past life, she started calling him Sardor. Sardor grew up under the care of Mashxura, who was both mother and father to him. She never remarried. Her only hope in life, her little ray of light, was Sardor. She endured everything for her child. Months and years passed this way. Mashxura raised and educated her son, dedicating everything to him. Murad never once came to check on them.
Years passed, and Mashxura passed away. By this time, Sardor had grown into a mature, educated, and determined young man. He was becoming a well-known and strong lawyer, tackling each case with responsibility and fighting passionately for justice. One day, while sitting in his office, a man entered, asking him to be his son’s lawyer and to help get him released no matter what. He explained that his son had become entangled with a criminal gang and was suspected in a murder. His son, though a few years younger than Sardor, had no stable profession, was a street wanderer, and indulged in debauchery.
“If only my son were as knowledgeable and skilled as you, I would look up to him with admiration and speak of him with pride,” the man lamented.
Something inside Sardor broke. A father’s pride. “Maybe, if my father were here now, he would indeed be proud of me,” Sardor thought. The man repeatedly pleaded, offering financial compensation and insisting that his son was innocent, although he knew who the real killer was but wouldn’t say. Sardor agreed and began studying the case, examining the history of the murder…
The day before the trial, Sardor came home early. Every day he came home, he felt like his mother would welcome him with “Welcome back, my son.” It’s been two years since she passed away. He’d been tirelessly working on Sherzod Ahmedov’s case for several days. He prepared all the documents meticulously and hurried home to get a good rest before the trial, confident he would win. Coming home, he entered his mother’s room, where her picture was among her perfumes. He wanted an imaginary conversation with her. He picked up her perfume, intending to spray it around the room to feel as if she were there, truly talking to him. As he opened the cap, a folded photo fell out. He opened it and saw an unfamiliar man with his arm around Mashxura’s shoulder, while Mashxura smiled at the camera. His mother was such a beautiful woman. He turned the photo over. “First New Year’s Eve. Murad and Mashxura.
Together forever.” It read, with a small heart drawn. He understood, the unfamiliar man was his father who had left them. The handwriting on the back must be his, not looks like his mother’s. “You hid the photo all these years, but never showed it to me, saying there was no his photo,” he thought. He looked at his smiling mother, the memory of her smile fresh in his mind as if it was just yesterday. He stared at his father for a long time. His face seemed familiar. He remembered. His heart began to beat fast. It felt like a dream. He couldn’t believe it, his eyes deceived him. This was the man who had come to his office to plead for his son’s defense, Sherzod Ahmedov’s father! “He didn’t recognize me, nor did I recognize him. Yes, I was a child then, but my name…” He realized that his father should have recognized him by his name, but then remembered his name had been changed from Quvonch to Sardor. He didn’t know whether to look at him with hatred or go to him and say, “I’m your son.” “What did he say? He spoke of admiration, a father’s pride, didn’t he? Shouldn’t he be looking at me with pride and admiration? Why? Could this really be true? What should I do? Should I take revenge for the pain he caused my mother, for the tears he made her shed? If I suffered from a lack of a father, should he now suffer from a lack of his child’s presence?” In a fit of rage, Sardor wanted to take his revenge and was contemplating undoing all his preparations for the next day’s trial.
The trial ended, and Sardor emerged victorious. Sherzod was freed. Sardor didn’t seek revenge against his father, he forgave everything. “Fate has already punished him with a criminal son,” he thought, and continued on his path.
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