The Woman Who Was Almost Me

Baran's future was secured. No one could take advantage of me anymore. I had built enough wealth and influence to ensure that my daughter would never suffer as I had. She would grow up free from the burdens that had once crushed me, and I had made sure of that.

But there was one problem I hadn't yet solved—her questions.

Baran was growing up, and as she did, her curiosity about her origins grew with her. She had only my mother as a grandmother and Darya as an aunt, and even at her young age, she seemed to sense that something was missing.

"Mom," she asked one evening, sitting on my lap, "why don't I have a dad like other kids?"

I had expected the question for a long time, yet when it came, it still cut deep. I had spent years building my fortress, making myself untouchable, but her innocent words threatened to shatter all of it.

I hesitated before answering, carefully choosing my words. "You have me, and that's all you need," I said, kissing her forehead.

"But who was he?" she insisted. "Did he love me?"

A coldness settled inside me. Love? That word felt foreign when associated with Kaveh. He had fought for her, not out of love, but out of spite. And when he lost, he disappeared.

"He wasn't ready to be a father," I finally said. "But you, Baran—you were always meant to be mine."

She seemed satisfied for the moment, but I knew this wouldn't be the last time she asked.

And worse, it wasn't just her father she was curious about.

"What about Aunt Dina?" she asked another day. "And my grandpa? And others you never talk about?"

My past, the one I had buried so carefully, was trying to surface.

I had promised myself never to let my history dictate my future. But could I erase it completely? Could I deny Baran the knowledge of where she came from?

For the first time in years, I felt something unfamiliar—uncertainty.

I had built my empire on control, but this? This was something I couldn't control.

And that terrified me.

Baran had everything—security, comfort, a bright future ahead of her. But she didn't have a strong family. No matter how much I gave her, there were gaps I couldn't fill.

And then, the nightmares started.

At first, I thought they were just childhood fears—shadows in the dark, harmless figments of her imagination. But they became more frequent, more intense. I would wake up to her cries in the middle of the night, rushing to her room to find her trembling, her little hands clutching at me desperately.

"Mom, I saw him," she whispered one night, her voice shaking.

"Who, Baran?" I asked, stroking her hair.

"A man. He was shouting. He was looking for me."

A chill ran down my spine.

I wanted to dismiss it as just another bad dream, but something about the way she looked at me—wide-eyed, desperate—made it impossible.

"Did he hurt you?" I asked gently.

She shook her head. "No… but he was angry. I think he wanted to take me."

I held her closer. "No one is taking you from me, Baran. No one."

But even as I said the words, I couldn't ignore the sinking feeling in my gut.

Could it be Kaveh? Could she somehow remember something from when she was younger? Or was this just her mind filling the gaps of the family she never had?

I didn't know.

But what I did know was that I had spent years ensuring no one could ever hurt me again.

And now, I needed to do the same for my daughter.

Even if it meant digging up ghosts I thought I had buried forever.

Baran spent almost all her time with me, except for the hours she was in kindergarten. She would sit in a corner of the café with her coloring books, watching me work, her little feet swinging from the chair. She was quiet, observant—too mature for her age, as if she understood more than she should.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe she needed a real home during the day, not just a café filled with strangers. Maybe she needed more than just me.

The thought unsettled me. I had built a life where I depended on no one. But was that fair to Baran?

One evening, as I tucked her into bed, she looked up at me with those deep, knowing eyes and asked, "Mom, why don't I have a big family like the other kids?"

I swallowed hard. "You have me, sweetheart. And Grandma. And Aunt Darya."

She frowned. "But they don't live with us."

I sat beside her, running my fingers through her hair. "Do you want to see Grandma more?"

She nodded. "I like when she tells me stories. And she makes my hair pretty."

That night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Maybe it was time. Maybe I needed to stop running from the past and let my mother back into our daily lives—for Baran's sake.

The next morning, I picked up the phone and dialed my mother's number.

"Mom," I said, hesitating for a second. "I think Baran needs more family around. Maybe… maybe we should come back for a while."

She didn't answer immediately. Then, with warmth in her voice, she said, "You don't have to do this alone, my daughter. Come home."

And just like that, I made the decision.

It was time to return.

Managing my life between two cities was exhausting, but it was the best solution. Baran needed stability, and my mother could provide that better than I could alone.

Four days a week, I stayed with my mother, making sure Baran felt the warmth of family. The remaining days, I returned to the capital, overseeing my café and business. I was constantly on the road, but at least Baran was happy.

Negin, my niece, quickly became like an older sister to Baran. They bonded effortlessly, playing together, reading stories, and even whispering secrets like real siblings. Seeing Baran smile so easily in Negin's presence reassured me that I had made the right choice.

"She needs someone to grow up with," my mother said one evening as we watched them play. "You've done well providing for her, but a child needs more than just security. She needs love, connections."

I nodded, though deep down, I wasn't sure if I fully believed in love or family anymore. But for Baran, I would try.

For the first time in years, my mother and I had real conversations. She didn't ask much about my business, and I didn't bring up the past. It was an unspoken agreement—keep the peace, keep things moving forward.

One evening, as I packed my bags to return to the capital, Baran hugged me tightly. "You'll come back soon, right?"

"Of course, sweetheart. Just a few days, and I'll be home."

She smiled, but something about her eyes told me she still feared being left behind.

That night, as I drove back to the city, I wondered—was I truly fixing things for her, or was I just delaying the inevitable?

After a while, Baran mentioned that her nightmares were gone.

She no longer woke up crying in the middle of the night, no longer clung to me with fearful eyes. She played more, laughed more, and even started asking fewer questions about her father. It seemed like the weight on her little shoulders had lifted.

Maybe the problem had been simpler than I thought. Maybe all she ever needed was a sense of family, of belonging, and I had finally given her that.

Watching her sleep peacefully at night, I felt something unfamiliar—relief. For the first time in years, something in my life had truly settled.

And with that, I closed another chapter of my life, ready for whatever came next.