Afroza is a domestic worker. Every morning, before the sun rises, she wakes up, finishes all the household chores including cooking for her family, and rushes off to work at six different homes. From this, she earns around 14,000 taka per month. Her husband, Zahid, sits at a small shop with a meager and unstable income. The burden of running the household falls mostly on Afroza.
Despite the relentless labor, Afroza holds onto a dream — a future where she no longer has to clean others’ homes. She dreams of returning to her village and starting a small business of her own. For the past five years, she has been giving her husband 5,000 taka every month to deposit into a DPS (Deposit Pension Scheme). By her calculations, the maturity amount should be around 3 lakh taka now.
Just a few months ago, Afroza gave birth to their second child. Even in her ninth month of pregnancy, she worked in all six houses, and within less than three months after the delivery, she returned to work. She had no choice — she knew most of the expenses would fall on her shoulders.
As the DPS term neared its end, Afroza began to dream more vividly. One quiet night, with her head resting on her husband’s familiar chest, she spoke of their future — the money they would receive, the kind of business she could start, where to invest the funds. Zahid remained silent. When she nudged him to respond, he shifted uncomfortably and, in a hesitant voice, confessed: he had not deposited a single taka into any DPS. For five years, he had spent all the money. He hadn’t even opened an account.
Worse still, Zahid had also secretly taken the money that came from selling land Afroza had inherited from her father.
Afroza’s hands and feet began to tremble. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe — as though her heart was about to burst. All that money — earned through sweat and sacrifice. Her dreams of a small business. Her children’s future. Gone.
Suddenly, their four-month-old baby started crying in his sleep. Afroza looked at him but couldn’t move. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably. The baby’s cries grew louder. Eventually, with great effort, she picked him up in her arms.
She sat still on the bed until morning. She didn’t sleep. She didn’t cry. Her heart raced like a ticking bomb. She didn’t utter a single word to her husband. Who could she even speak to anymore? Who was left to trust? She had endured the poverty, the struggle — but what had she received in return? Even the cost of her C-section delivery had come from her own earnings.
Zahid kept trying to explain, offering excuses, trying to calm her. But he couldn’t bring himself to admit that he had gambled away all the money. Afroza didn’t want to hear any of it.
Finally, at dawn, she whispered a single sentence:
"I can’t stay in this marriage anymore."
Then, with a gut-wrenching scream, she broke down in uncontrollable sobs. The betrayal was too deep, too cruel. Taking only her two children and the clothes on her back, Afroza walked out of her 13-year-long marriage.
She never looked back.
This was Afroza’s household.