Now:
"Ma'am, our meeting with Engro has been moved up to 3:30." My personal assistant, Fahad pops in to inform me. "And, your mother wants you to head over to Hayat HQ, by tonight."

I yank myself away from the excel sheet, to nod at him. Huge corporations like Engro, are heartlessly cavalier about moving meetings to suit their convenience. Unfortunately for me, I can't afford Not to dance to their tunes. I can, however, rail privately to Shay, and refuse my mother's invitation.

I hate going to Hayat HQ, and she knows it. It's like a collection of everything I hated about my childhood. The polished marble floors, lined with expensive oak, and the cavernous depths of my Mama's office. I remember all the hours I spent there, left at the mercy of pandering PAs, and other employees, while Mom flitted around, sniffing at Chiffon sleeves, and yanking on rayon cuffs.

Her PA forwards my call immediately, and I hear her soft voice, "What?"

"Assalamualikum Mama. I'm doing great, thanks for asking. You?" I say sarcastically.

"Don't patronize me Layla. I have a Multi-national fashion giant to run." Her soft tone never wavers in pitch, but her words imply exactly what they meant to: Her time is more valuable than mine.

"I can't come to HQ tonight, kind of busy with meetings all day. I'll come home late, and we can talk them." I say brusquely.

"When I told your PA that I wanted to see you at HQ tonight, I wasn't asking Layla. I was informing you." Her tone sharpens a bit, "Make your presence available by 8:30 tonight. I'll be waiting." She hangs up before I can protest some more.

I grind my teeth in annoyance. My relationship with Mama hasn't improved over the years. She objects to basically everything I believe in, and everything I value. She thinks NGOs like mine are a "Hobby". It's something people from our social class do when they're bored. It's "Not a career, darling."

She thinks that being my mother gives her the right to meddle in my life, and make choices on my behalf. Choices that will eventually turn me into someone like her.

My office phone beeps; Shay is calling me.

"Can I come in now? Three days are too long a punishment." She pleads.

"Fine. You can come in." I sighed. I was still pissed off at the Azaan Malik stunt she pulled at the Annual Charity Gala.

My door swings open, revealing a smartly dressed Pareeshae. Her makeup is minimal, hair braided in a loose french knot, and her dress isn't ostentatious. We have dress codes here, at Hiraeth. None of the social workers, or office employees are allowed to wear overly expensive clothing, out of respect to our residents. I myself, am wearing a simple white Kurta Shalwar, paired with a bright, traditional dupatta, one of my girls embroidered for my birthday.

"If I'm forgiven, may I present a new possible project to you? O great Miss President?" Shay taps a file temptingly close to my hands.

"You're forgiven, Miss Vice President" , I reluctantly grin back. It really wasn't her fault that he had shown up, and had bid outrageously on our carpet. I now had more than Ten Million Rupees for our project, which would go a long way in financing better facilities, and entrepreneurial ventures for the girls. I tried not to let my emotions ruin something positive for our home.

"This is incredible. The revenue alone would propel us from a charitable venture to a self-sufficient corporation." She pushes the file towards me, dragging a bean bag from the sitting area, to crash next to me.

I scan the file's contents for a second before slamming my head repeatedly against the oak desk. "A fashion line, Pareeshae? are you high? If so, can I have some of whatever you snorted?"

She hits me with the file between her words, "Stop. Being. Fucking. Selfish. Bitch."

"If there's one thing that has plagued me MY WHOLE LIFE, it's the fashion industry, Shay!" I moan with pain at her attacks, "You of all people should know better."

"A. This isn't about you; it's about our girls. And B. It's not just a fashion line. It's a Jewelry Store/Home Decor/Clothing Line. It's gonna be a profitable, niche thing. Not a consumer giant like Hayat! So don't go slitting your wrists over this."

I sigh, mulling over the ideas, and contemplating numbers. "How exactly are we financing this? The gala stash is barely gonna make a dent on this. We're talking atleast a billion, just to kick it off...."

"Uh, yeah...I already have an investor. Don't fret over the money part. Kay?" She chirps at me, suddenly really busy examining her french manicure.

Call it a sixth sense, or a Bullshit detector...but something seems off. I raise my eyebrows at her, "You have a moneybags investor lined up, who's willing to fork over a Billion, in a venture that can crash and burn, or become a success?"

"Yep. Something like that."

"Who?"

"It's not relevant at the moment, if you don't even approve the project first." She stubbornly lifts her jaw, "First, go through the file thoroughly tonight, before squabbling over money."

"Mama wants to see me tonight. In her lair." I sighed to her. "No idea what bombshell is about to drop on my head..."

"Damn. Is your Dad marrying again?"
"I dunno. I hope not. Mom might actually divorce him if he does." I replied glumly.

Oh, did I mention that my Dad's a bigamist? Well...he is. Yep. My fam is a neat little desi soap opera.

Dear Daddy married his secretary when I was 12; after nearly two decades of being "Happily Married" to my Mama.

Most wives would have demanded divorce, but my Mother isn't most anything. She treated this event, as she treats everything else in her life; with polite indifference. She did restrict him from our lives, and our home, but was adamant not to stain her reputation with a word as ugly as divorce.

I still remember the day Dad phoned her from his honeymoon in Venice. She didn't scream at him, or curse,
or cry. It was like she was expecting him to do something like this. Probably because Dad's side of the family is dotted with a history of philandering, polygamist males. So She briskly informed him that she won't be taking a divorce, and told him not to bother coming home to us.

"The kids can visit you wherever you choose to settle down. I'd like to avoid your presence in my house, for the forseeable future." She had said emotionlessly.

I still remember the media circus hounding us for days afterwards. They tore apart my parents' marriage; dug up old family photos, created false "Persons of interest", and generally fucked up any normalcy my mother was trying to maintain for our sake.

As an ex-senator, and twice appointed Foriegn Minister; Khalid Hayat's blatant discretion was a cause for much speculation. The Hayat family is a name well known in the local political scene. It didn't help that my mother was also an established industry name.

Mama shocked everyone by appearing at a movie premiere, hours after Dad broke the news of his nuptials. Her iconic black gown is still cited as something of a legend in fashion circles; flawless skin and figure belied her middling age. She was a visual proof that my father was an idiot. She didn't have to say much after that.

The papers quoted her as an indulgent, sensible wife/mother,instead of the heartbroken, jealous shrew they were hoping to find.

"How can I restrict him from doing something, God Himself hasn't objected to?" She had smirked during the press conference, reminding them of Islam's allowance of four marriages.

I'm the one of the only two people who witnessed her emotional breakdown at home. She screamed herself hoarse, and broke the contents of her entire perfume collection. Ruby, our caretaker whisked me away from my mother's wing, hiding me in her own quarters for the night. The next morning, Mom was as normal as room temperature. Back to her old, composed self. She did change a bit though. Her devotion to her company became a manic obsession. She took Hayat from a two-store clothing brand, to a multi-national fashion conglomerate.

I have no idea what she wants to talk to me about, but fact of the matter is, I hate Hayat and everything it represents for our family.

........

"No. No. Yes. Ugly. No. Maybe....wait, turn around..." Mom shudders as one of the parading models nervously turns around, "Ugh. Looks like something Gul Ahmed would put up on their clearance shelves."

Razi, one of Mom's latest designers rushes to practically yank the model away from the cat-walk area.

I lean down to kiss my Mama's cheek, "You summoned? Your majesty?"

She purses her red lips at my simple jeans and plaid shirt; not voicing the criticism, laser-beaming me from her narrowed eyes.

"Yes. We need to talk. Just let me finalize these last dozen designs."

I scan the crowd of ridiculous dresses nobody in their right mind would ever wear. A male model was strutting around in a skirt for God's sake!

"I'll help." I pointed one by one at the remaining models as they stepped forward, "Too frou frou....Too naked...Wrong gender...Uh, WTF...Too Star Wars...Too Tahir Shah..."

Mom grimaced at my evaluation. "That'll be all darling. Save some for PFW (Pakistan Fashion Week)"

Once she has wrapped up her day's work, (and I have beaten my High Score in Subway Surfer) we finally get to the chase.

"I'm leaving the country for a week." She snaps shut a few open lights along the empty runway.

"Okaaay, and you're telling me this at eleven O' clock in your deserted HQ, because?..." I'm confused. She barely ever bothers to inform me of her itinerary. I usually have a better chance of learning her whereabouts from DAWN's Sunday paper than from her own mouth.

"I don't want you to create a scene. And you will create one if we were home." She murmurs, nodding to the night guards locking up after us.

"Is Dad remarrying?" I blurt out without thinking.

She stumbles a bit, but quickly regains her footing. "I have no idea. The last I heard from your father was a month ago. He was hiding in Zurich with his wife. A death threat from his opponent, apparently..."

I nod slowly. This isn't the first time one of Dad's political combats have driven him to flee the country.

"I'm sick, Layla." Mama stops me with a hand on my elbow. "I'm going to visit my physician in London. For an expert opinion...."

I'm speechless. "bu-but you..."

She doesn't look ill; she looks perfect, like she always does. Or maybe, I simply overlooked the slight prominence of her cheekbones....and the extra layer of concealer under her huge eyes.

"It may be nothing. But tumors aren't to be taken lightly..." She sighs annoyedly, "The timing is so bloody inconvenient for me. What with the Bridal Couture Week coming up in a month..."

I just gape at her. According to my mother, even fatal diseases ought to clear things with her schedule before attacking her. Typical.

"...I trust you'll keep your mouth shut about this. I don't want this reaching the media. Your sister has agreed to step up and overlook things at HQ, and it wouldn't kill you to drop in now and then too..."

"I will Mama." I stammer hurriedly. There's something horrifying about finding out that your family is mortal. I know we have our differences, but I do love my Mom.

She looks surprised at my acquiesance. I reached for her arms, cautiously giving her a hug. She was stiff at first, but then patted me awkwardly on the back. I resist the urge to bawl like a baby.

"We're fine Layla. Nothing to worry about..." She murmurs in my ear.

It hurtles me back to another time. When she said those same words.

"Layla? Why are you hiding here?", Mama looks confused and alarmed. Her arms are filled with work related files and folders. I guess she came home early today.

"I'm not h-hiding." I scramble out of Mama's shoe closet, relief and panic warring with each other. For a second, I thought he had found me.

When I hear his voice in the living room, laughing with my brother, I flinch before instinctively turning back towards my sanctuary.

"Laylie? What's wrong?" Her soft hands lift my chin to meet her gaze. She looks terrified. An expression I've never seen on her face before, or since.

"I just m-missed Ruby..." I lied. Our caretaker was on a vacation. I knew she saw right through me. But she never questioned me when I started sobbing, and shivering; she just wrapped me in her arms, and let me ruin her favorite work blouse.

"We're okay, Laylee. Nothing to worry about...I'm here with you..."

I believed her then.
I don't now.

Author's Note:
Thank you for the patience guys! I know this irregularity is very NOT me. But the chapters are pretty long, so that should count too huh?

Completely random, but if you want to know more about Pakistan, and Pakistani people, I suggest heading over to Humans Of New York's facebook page. He recently visited, and has such beautiful stories from my country. (This message is sponsored by Pakola) 8)