The living room of the family home was a chaotic little haven, with mismatched furniture that told stories of yard sales and hand-me-downs. A threadbare couch sagged under years of use, a flickering TV muttered sports commentary in the background, and the faint, stubborn scent of burnt toast from breakfast clung to the air. It was noon, but the room felt like it was still waking up—just like half the people in it.
Hira, the eldest sister at thirty-two, lounged on the couch like a queen on a thrift-store throne, her tight black tank top hugging her curves as she scrolled through her phone with a scowl. Her dark hair was tossed into a messy bun, and her sharp, almond-shaped eyes glinted with frustration. “Useless swimmers,” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for anyone in the room to catch. “I swear, if I have to hear one more doctor tell me it’s ‘not my fault,’ I’m gonna start swinging.”
Sprawled on the floor in front of the TV, Ali, the youngest at twenty-four, barely looked up from his video game. His lanky frame was hunched over a controller, thumbs smashing buttons with the intensity of a war general. He rolled his eyes so hard it was practically audible. “Hira, do you ever stop oversharing? Like, ever? I don’t need to know about your husband’s… aquatic issues.” His voice dripped with mock disgust, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Shut it, kid,” Hira snapped, not even glancing at him. “When you’ve been married for five years and still can’t get a bun in the oven, you’ll be whining too. Until then, keep your snark to your little pixel soldiers.”
Before Ali could fire back, the door creaked open, and Ammar, their father, shuffled in. At fifty-eight, he looked like he’d just rolled out of bed—shirt half-untucked, graying hair a mess, a chipped mug of coffee in hand. His tired eyes scanned the room with the resigned air of a man who’d long given up on peace and quiet. “What’s all the racket now?” he grumbled, plopping into a worn armchair with a groan.
Hira didn’t hesitate. She sat up straighter, tossing her phone onto the cushion beside her, and fixed her gaze on the room like she was about to deliver a corporate presentation. “I need help getting pregnant,” she announced, her tone as casual as if she’d asked for a ride to the grocery store. “Since my darling husband can’t seem to get the job done, I figured it’s time to outsource within the family.”
Ali choked on his energy drink, the can nearly slipping from his hand as his controller clattered to the floor. His wide, horrified eyes darted to Hira, then to the ceiling, as if praying for divine intervention. “What the actual—Hira, are you insane? Did I just hear that right? You’re asking for… what, a donation? From us?” His voice cracked on the last word, a mix of mortification and morbid curiosity.
Ammar, unfazed, took a long sip of his coffee, the steam curling around his stubbled chin. He nodded thoughtfully, scratching at his jaw with a rough hand. “Family duty,” he murmured, as if Hira had just asked for help with her taxes. “Always said we stick together. Might as well stick… literally, I suppose.”
Hira’s lips curled into a wicked smirk as she locked eyes with Ali, leaning forward on the couch, her posture all predator. “What’s the matter, little brother? You’re not man enough to step up? I thought all that gaming gave you some kinda strategy. Or are you just shooting blanks in virtual reality too?”
Ali’s face flushed a violent shade of red, his hands flailing as he tried to form a coherent response. “I—Hira, you can’t just—what the hell! I’m not some… some stud for hire! This is messed up on like, ten different levels!”
Her sharp, commanding laughter cut through his protests like a blade. “Oh, come on, Ali. Grow a pair. I’m not asking you to serenade me. It’s biology, not a damn romance novel. You in or out?”
Ammar cleared his throat, cutting through the tension with the gruff pragmatism of a man who’d seen it all. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We gotta figure out logistics. Timing, schedules, all that. This ain’t a backyard barbecue we’re planning.” He squinted at Hira, then Ali, as if sizing them up for a job interview.
The air crackled with a bizarre mix of discomfort and absurdity as Hira took charge, her confidence unshakeable. She pointed at Ali with the precision of a general assigning battle positions. “You, stop panicking. We’ll get you a manual if you’re that clueless.” Then, to Ammar, “And you, Dad, don’t turn this into a spreadsheet. I just need a yes or no, not a five-year plan.”
Ali, still reeling, tried to deflect with humor, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “Heh, guess we’re really… keeping it in the family, huh?” His forced chuckle died under Hira’s withering glare.
She leaned closer, her voice a low, savage purr. “Keep cracking jokes, Ali. Maybe if you spent less time playing games and more time learning how to please a woman, I wouldn’t have to ask twice.”
Ammar, ignoring the jab, pulled a napkin from his pocket and started scribbling on it with a stubby pencil. “Pros: family stays tight, no outsiders. Cons: well, obvious awkwardness. Timing’s gotta be right, though. Optimal conditions, you know.” He muttered to himself, completely oblivious to Hira’s eye-roll.
“Oh my God, Dad, stop overthinking it,” Hira groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t a science experiment. It’s a baby, not a chemistry set.”
Before anyone could respond, the front door creaked open with a dramatic flair, and Rida, the middle sister, strutted in. At twenty-eight, she carried herself like a storm waiting to break—heels clicking with authority, her leather jacket slung over one shoulder, and her crimson lipstick a stark contrast to the scowl on her face. Fresh from a disastrous date, her energy screamed ‘don’t test me.’ “What the hell is going on in here?” she demanded, crossing her arms as her sharp gaze swept the room. “I could hear the dysfunction from the driveway.”
Hira didn’t miss a beat. She leaned back on the couch, her smirk widening into something almost feral. “Oh, perfect timing, sis. I’m just recruiting for a little family project. Since my husband’s a dud in the baby-making department, I’m enlisting help. Wanna throw your hat in the ring, or are you too busy bombing dates?”
Rida’s jaw dropped, her eyes widening in disbelief as she processed the words. For a moment, she was speechless—a rare feat. Then, a sharp bark of laughter erupted from her, cutting through the room like a whip. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, Hira. You’re turning our family into a damn soap opera. What’s next, a reality show? ‘Dysfunctional DNA: The Baby Edition’?” She shook her head, but the glint in her eyes betrayed her curiosity. “You’re insane. But… I’m listening.”
Hira’s grin was triumphant, her posture radiating control as she gestured to the empty spot beside her on the couch. “Take a seat, Rida. We’re just getting started.”
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