I said don't follow me! Are you deaf!?
Sarah screamed at Jafar.
Her voice was sharp. Far too sharp for an eight-year-old child.
Jafar froze. His small body trembled as he slowly dropped the shoe he was holding.
Then he ran—straight into his mother's arms.
"Mummy..." he sobbed, hugging her tightly.
Sarah hissed, snatched her car keys, and marched out.
She slammed the door, entered her car, and drove off without looking back.
"I'm sorry, my darling," Mrs. Ahmad whispered, rubbing Jafar's head.
"You know she loves you... she's just in a hurry. You might delay her."
Jafar shook his head softly. "No... she doesn't like me."
His voice cracked. "She's always like that."
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
"I just wanted to follow her..."
His mother wiped his tears gently.
"Don't worry. Next time, I'll make sure she takes you along, okay?"
He nodded weakly.
"Good boy," she said softly. "Tunde will take you out instead."
Jafar quickly shook his head.
"No... Brother Tunde shouldn't bother. I'll just do my assignment."
"Alright, sweetheart."
Jafar sniffed and walked inside.
He brought out his school notebook, but tears kept dropping on the pages.
He was just eight... just a child.
Yet he already understood hatred.
Mr. and Mrs. Ahmad had four children—
Korede, the first son, already married.
Tunde, preparing for his wedding.
Sarah, the only girl, 21, beautiful, wealthy, intelligent... and cold.
And Jafar, the last born. Born when Sarah was 13.
For as long as he could remember, Sarah had never liked him.
She never wished him Happy Birthday.
She rarely smiled at him.
She treated him as though he was nothing.
His parents always said,
"Don't mind her. She's just jealous. She thought she would be the last born."
But could that really explain the hatred?
Could jealousy alone make someone despise a child this deeply?
