Overindulgence in anything can be destructive. True strength lies in knowing your limits and valuing those who depend on you

By Abdullah Usman Morai

In a small, forgotten village tucked away from the bustle of the world, lived a man named Rafiq. Life had never been kind to him. Years of hardship had chipped away at his dreams, leaving behind a hollow version of the man he once was. Rafiq had developed a habit—a habit of drowning his worries in alcohol every weekend. At first, it was a rare indulgence to escape reality. But over time, it became a necessity, a crutch to carry his burdens.

Rafiq lived with his wife, Salma, and their seven-year-old daughter, Amina. Salma was a patient woman who had stood beside her husband through better days, but his drinking weighed heavy on her heart. Amina, innocent and full of life, adored her father but grew distant when he drank too much. She didn’t understand why the man who once chased her through the fields and fixed her broken toys became someone else on weekends.

Every Friday evening, as the sun dipped behind the distant hills, Rafiq would return home with bottles clinking in a worn-out sack. By nightfall, his senses would be dulled, and his laughter grew loud and empty. He would sit in the corner of their humble home, lost in his intoxicated stupor, oblivious to the worried glances his wife and daughter exchanged.

“Rafiq,” Salma would plead softly, “Please, think of Amina. What if something happens? You won’t even know.”

But her words fell on deaf ears. He loved his family, yet the grip of his addiction was fierce. Deep down, Rafiq hated himself for the man he had become. He remembered the days when he was proud—when he worked hard and came home with his head held high. Now, he feared losing his job as a mechanic. If his employer ever discovered his weekend binges, it could mean the end of their only source of income.

One night, after drinking far more than usual, Rafiq stumbled to his bed and collapsed into a heavy sleep. As his body lay still, his mind spiraled into a vivid and terrifying dream.

In his dream, the house was cold and filled with the echoes of cries. He saw Salma kneeling beside Amina, who lay pale and weak. The little girl’s breath was shallow, her forehead burning with fever. Tears streamed down Salma’s face as she tried to wake Rafiq.

“Rafiq! Please, wake up!” she cried, shaking his limp form. “Amina is sick! We need to get her to the doctor!”

But he couldn’t move. His limbs felt like lead, his head heavy and clouded. He tried to speak, to rise, to do anything—but the alcohol held him prisoner. He watched helplessly as Amina’s fragile frame trembled, her lips parting in a weak plea for her father.

“Baba… help me,” she whispered.

The sound of her voice pierced through him like a blade. Despair washed over him as he realized that he was useless when his family needed him most. The walls seemed to close in, the air thick with helplessness.

“No!” he screamed in his dream. “I can’t lose them!”

With a jolt, Rafiq woke up. His heart pounded against his chest, his clothes clung to his skin, damp with sweat. The room was dark and quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock. His breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled out of bed and rushed to Amina’s room.

There she was—peacefully asleep, her small chest rising and falling in the gentle rhythm of dreams. Relief flooded through him, and tears blurred his vision. He knelt beside her bed and whispered, “Thank God… it was just a dream.”

In that moment, something inside Rafiq shifted. The weight of his actions fell on him with crushing clarity. He realized that his love for his family had to be stronger than his weakness. If that dream became reality, he would never forgive himself.

The next morning, as the sun poured golden light into their modest home, Rafiq sat across from Salma. He took her hand in his, his voice thick with emotion.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I cannot live like this anymore. I saw what could happen if I keep drinking. I promise you, Salma, I will change. For you. For Amina. For us.”

Salma searched his face for any sign of deception but found only sincerity and regret. Tears welled in her eyes as she squeezed his hand gently. “I believe in you, Rafiq. We need you.”

It was not an easy road. The cravings still gnawed at him, and the temptation lingered like a shadow. But every time he faltered, the memory of that terrible dream burned in his mind. He poured his energy into his work, coming home sober and present. Weekends became a time for laughter and warmth instead of numbness and guilt.

One evening, months later, Amina curled up beside him as he mended a broken toy.

“Baba,” she said, her voice filled with happiness, “I like you like this. You smile more.”

Rafiq’s heart swelled with pride. He kissed her forehead and smiled. “I like me like this too, my little one.”

From that day forward, Rafiq remained within the bounds of moderation, knowing that too much of anything could destroy the things he cherished most. His family became his anchor, and he never let go again.

Moral: Overindulgence in anything can be destructive. True strength lies in knowing your limits and valuing those who depend on you.