By Ishfaq Nabi Qureshi

I reached the rehabilitation center in Srinagar early, when the streets still held the morning chill. Cold crept through the walls, mingling with the sharp scent of antiseptic and the warmth of brewing tea. Another day of intake forms, histories, and assessments waited. I thought it would be the usual routine. This day felt different.

A woman walked in, holding her infant close. Tears shone in her eyes. Her husband followed, hollow-eyed, shoulders slumped from years of fighting addiction. He moved slowly, silent, carrying the weight of battles lost.

The paperwork started. I asked questions, noted histories, recorded details of substance use and relapse. Her voice shook as she spoke. Her baby began to cry, a small, trembling sound that seemed almost swallowed by the room. Then it grew, demanding attention.

The infant's cries rose above the ticking clock, the low voices of the staff, and the father's hesitant mutterings. She lay in her mother's lap, wrapped in a thin shawl against November cold. Her tiny feet peeked out. Her chest rose unevenly as she coughed. The mother rocked her, whispering words of comfort that disappeared into the air.

I tried to continue my notes, but the cries drew me in. They were not just cries of discomfort. They carried the weight of hardship, the silent inheritance of suffering.

Addiction does not only affect the person who uses. It reaches spouses, parents, and children, leaving invisible scars.

Minutes passed. Her cries slowed into small gasps. Her limbs relaxed as sleep claimed her. She clutched her mother's shawl and her eyelashes rested against her pale cheeks. Even in sleep, she seemed to carry burdens too heavy for her age.

The father fidgeted beside them, guilt and shame written in every small movement.

I set down my pen, watching the scene. Between the child's rest and the father's tremor lay the reality I face daily: healing one life while others around it struggle silently.

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