Visiting Hours

The NHS laptop wheezed like Tariq Mahmood's own lungs, its ancient cooling fan struggling against seven years of ward dust and dropped tea. He'd commandeered it from the nurses' station despite their protests about "patient data security," because what were they going to do—charge him for usage? He'd already calculated that his daily bed rate was £347.

Last Will and Testament of Tariq Mahmood, Version 52

Each revision was a chess move, carefully calibrated to ensure maximum return on forty years of investment. Every pound spent on Hassan's education, every mortgage payment, every school fee—all documented, all calculated with compound interest in his head.

His phone rang. Auntie Nasreen's number.

"Assalamu alaikum, bhai. I've been thinking about your hospital expenses. Very costly, these private rooms."

"Walaikum assalam. It's not private—it's NHS. Free at point of service, though my tax contributions over forty years probably more than cover it."

"Still expensive for the family. All this traveling for visits, petrol costs. And that woman probably expects Hassan to take unpaid leave for hospital visits."

Tariq glanced at his laptop screen, where Hassan's inheritance conditions sat like a carefully audited spreadsheet. "I'm addressing financial concerns through appropriate channels."

"Good, good. Though you know what she'll say when she sees all those conditions in your will. 'Don't the gora teach forgiveness? Forgive and forget?' Very convenient philosophy when you've been enjoying family subsidies for fifteen years."

Nasreen's laugh was soft, calculating. "I worked out the numbers, bhai. The house payments, school fees, that company car lease—you've invested nearly £300,000 in that boy's comfort. She probably thinks it was all free."

Through the ward window, Tariq could see Hassan's Audi pulling into visitor parking. £389 monthly lease payment, plus insurance, plus fuel allowance. All carefully structured through the business for maximum tax efficiency.

"They're here," Tariq said.

"Remember the numbers, bhai. Three hundred thousand pounds buys a lot of loyalty. Don't let sentiment cloud your judgment."

The line went dead as Hassan entered with his wife Emma, both looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. Behind them trailed little Ravi, clutching what appeared to be another crayon drawing.

"Dad," Hassan said, settling into the visitor's chair with visible reluctance. "Your text said it was urgent."

"Time-sensitive matters require immediate attention. Hospital costs £347 per day—can't afford extended deliberations."

Emma remained standing near the radiator, studying the thermostat dial with intense interest. She always found something else to look at during family financial discussions.

"Ravi made you something," Hassan said, nudging his son forward.

The six-year-old approached cautiously, holding up his artwork. It showed stick figures around a bed, with numbers floating above their heads like price tags.

"It's the expensive hospital," Ravi explained matter-of-factly. "Mummy says everything here costs lots of money."

"Very observant boy," Tariq said, accepting the drawing. "Understanding value is important."

"What's value?" Ravi asked.

Before Tariq could answer, an orderly pushed past with a tea trolley, calling to his colleague: "Ward Seven's having family conferences again. Same drama, different day. Least they're still within visiting hours."

The comment hung in the air like an unwelcome diagnosis.

"Dad," Hassan said carefully, "about this urgent matter."

Tariq pulled up his laptop, angling the screen so Hassan could see the spreadsheet of conditions. "Several complexities have emerged regarding asset distribution and return on investment."

Hassan leaned forward, reading. His face went through several expressions as the numbers accumulated.

"You've... itemized everything," Hassan said slowly. "Every school fee, every mortgage payment. With interest calculations."

"Prudent financial planning requires accurate accounting. Forty years of investment deserves appropriate consideration."

"And the house mortgage," Emma had turned from the radiator now, reading over Hassan's shoulder. "Continued residence conditional on... monthly cemetery visits for two years?"

"Weekly," Tariq corrected. "Monthly would be insufficient return on £180,000 property investment."

"Right. Weekly cemetery visits." Emma's voice was perfectly pleasant. "Very specific. Must have taken considerable time to calculate optimal frequency."

"Cost-benefit analysis suggests weekly visits provide adequate memorial value while minimizing travel expenses."

Hassan was still scrolling. "Dad, you've put a price on everything. Even Ravi's weekend Urdu classes—£40 per session, minimum fifty sessions annually."

"Cultural preservation requires measurable outcomes. Can't trust such investments to goodwill alone."

An orderly wheeled past, muttering to another: "Visiting hours end at eight sharp tonight. Don't care if families are still arguing about money—rules are rules."

"Very considerate of them to specify the time limits," Emma observed. "Helpful to know exactly when obligations end."

Tariq studied her face, looking for the trap. Emma had always been too polite during financial discussions, which made her impossible to pin down on specific commitments.

"Speaking of obligations," Tariq said, "the family foundation provides £25,000 annually to Hassan's school. Performance oversight seems reasonable given the investment level."

"Performance oversight," Hassan repeated. "For a job I've held successfully for fifteen years."

"Past performance doesn't guarantee future results. Basic investment principle."

Ravi had wandered to the window, where he began providing commentary on the car park: "That lady's putting lots of coins in the parking machine. Now she's hitting it. Now she's looking in her purse for more coins."

"Smart lady," Emma said quietly. "Understanding exactly what things cost before committing."

The comment was delivered with such casual precision that Tariq felt his chest tighten.

"Dad," Hassan said, closing the laptop screen, "we need to discuss this."

"We are discussing it. I'm presenting a comprehensive financial framework."

"Right." Emma turned to face them. "Just so I understand—Ravi's housing, education, and his father's employment all depend on compliance with these performance metrics?"

"I prefer 'return on investment parameters.'"

"Of course. Parameters." Emma's smile was bright, dangerous. "Very thorough accounting. Must represent significant time investment."

Nurse Patricia appeared with the tea trolley, wheels squeaking against polished linoleum. "Afternoon refreshments, Mr. Mahmood? Though I see you're having important family discussions. Always nice when families come together to sort things out."

She began arranging cups with practiced efficiency. "Visiting hours until eight tonight, so plenty of time for whatever needs discussing."

"Very generous time allowance," Patricia continued, offering sugar sachets around. "Some places rush these conversations, but we believe family matters deserve proper attention."

Hassan accepted tea gratefully. Emma declined with a polite headshake.

"Actually," Emma said as Patricia wheeled away, "I've been doing some calculations of my own."

She pulled out her phone, swiping to what appeared to be a detailed spreadsheet. "Fifteen years of marriage. Conservative estimate of unpaid domestic labor, childcare, and family support services."

Tariq felt something cold settle in his stomach. "What kind of calculations?"

"Market rate for live-in childcare, housekeeping, elderly parent support visits, family event coordination." Emma's tone remained conversational. "Standard industry rates, of course. Nothing inflated."

She turned the phone screen toward him. The numbers were significant.

"Interesting figure," Emma continued. "Though I suppose my contributions don't count as investments since I'm not blood family."

"That's not—" Tariq started.

"Isn't it? Because I've been keeping track. Fifteen years of Christmas presents carefully budgeted, birthday contributions monitored, even grocery expenses for family dinners itemized in household accounts." Emma's smile never wavered. "Very educational, learning to think in terms of cost-benefit analysis."

Hassan was staring at his wife like he was seeing her for the first time.

"Emma," Tariq said carefully, "family support isn't a business transaction—"

"Isn't it? Because this document suggests otherwise." She gestured toward his laptop. "Every pound tracked, every commitment measured, every relationship reduced to performance metrics."

Ravi had moved on from car park commentary to examining the visitor chairs. "These chairs are wobbly. But they work okay if you don't lean back too much."

"Very philosophical observation," Emma said to her son. "Sometimes things that seem broken work perfectly fine if you stop expecting them to be something they're not."

The room fell silent except for the mechanical hum of hospital equipment and distant corridor conversations.

"Hassan," Tariq said finally, "you're being emotional. Making decisions based on temporary feelings rather than practical mathematics."

"Am I? Or am I finally understanding what the mathematics actually cost?"

Hassan stood up, gathering Ravi's drawings. "Dad, we've been thinking. About alternatives."

"What kind of alternatives?"

"The kind where our housing, employment, and child's education don't require quarterly performance reviews," Emma said. "Radical concept, I know."

"That's financially irresponsible. You'd forfeit significant accumulated benefits."

"We'd forfeit accumulated obligations," Emma corrected. "Different calculation entirely."

"You have no idea what things actually cost in the real world," Tariq said desperately. "Rent, school fees, car payments—without family support, you'll discover exactly how expensive independence is."

"We've done the math," Hassan said quietly. "Extensively. Turns out independence costs less than we thought."

"And dependence costs more," Emma added. "Much more. Though I suppose that was always the point."

They moved toward the door, Ravi skipping between them, chattering about the wobbly chairs and the lady who'd been fighting the parking machine.

"The house," Tariq called as they reached the threshold. "Hassan's job security. Ravi's school fees. Without family investment, you'll lose everything within months."

Hassan paused, his son's hand in his. "I know exactly what we'll lose, Dad. And exactly what we'll keep."

"Which is what? Your teacher's salary? Emma's part-time consulting? You'll be lucky to afford a one-bedroom flat."

"Then we'll get a one-bedroom flat," Emma said. "And it'll be ours. No performance metrics required."

The corridor beyond the door hummed with activity—nurses finishing rounds, orderlies distributing evening meals, other families navigating their own complicated conversations within the boundaries of visiting hours.

"You'll regret this," Tariq said. "When you're calculating every penny, when the boy can't have proper opportunities—"

"Maybe," Hassan said. "But they'll be our calculations. Our choices. Our regrets."

Emma studied Tariq's face with something that might have been pity. "For fifteen years, I've watched you use mathematics to justify emotional decisions. But some things can't be calculated, Tariq. Love isn't a return on investment."

"Then what is it?"

"Free," she said simply. "It's free. No performance metrics, no quarterly reviews, no compound interest calculations. Just free."

Before they could reach the door, it swung open to reveal Auntie Nasreen, clutching a Tesco bag and wearing her best disapproving expression.

"Assalamu alaikum," she announced, surveying the scene. "I came as soon as I could. Traffic was terrible—had to pay £3.50 for parking."

She set down her bag, producing a thermos and containers. "Brought proper tea and samosas. Hospital food is overpriced rubbish."

Hassan and Emma had frozen in the doorway, trapped between Tariq's spreadsheet and Nasreen's strategic arrival.

"Auntie," Hassan said carefully, "we were just leaving."

"Leaving? But you've only just arrived. Visiting hours don't end until eight." Nasreen consulted her watch with theatrical precision. "Plenty of time for family discussion."

She turned to Emma with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Emma, beta, you look tired. All this hospital visiting must be very stressful for you."

"Not particularly," Emma replied pleasantly. "Just educational."

"Educational?" Nasreen unpacked samosas with practiced efficiency. "What could be educational about hospital visits?"

"Learning about family values. Cost-benefit analysis. Return on investment." Emma's tone remained conversational. "Very illuminating principles."

Ravi had discovered the mechanical bed controls and was making the head section rise and fall with quiet fascination. "Look, it's like a transformer! Granddad's bed can turn into a chair!"

"Careful with that, beta," Nasreen said. "Those machines are very expensive. Everything in hospitals costs money."

"That's what Nana always says," Ravi observed. "Everything costs money and nothing is free."

The innocent repetition hung in the air like an indictment.

"Smart boy," Nasreen said approvingly. "Understanding value is important." She shot a meaningful look at Emma. "Some people think everything should be free, na? Very Western thinking."

"Is it?" Emma asked. "I thought generosity was quite universal. Though I suppose it depends how you define generous."

"Generosity means knowing when to be grateful," Nasreen replied, offering samosas around. "Taking family support for granted is very ungrateful."

Hassan accepted food with resignation. Emma declined politely.

"Actually," Emma said, pulling out her phone again, "I've been thinking about gratitude quite a lot. Fifteen years of it, to be precise."

She swiped to a new spreadsheet. "This one calculates the market value of gratitude. Based on frequency of expression, duration of obligation, and emotional labor costs."

Nasreen's smile faltered slightly. "What kind of calculation is that?"

"The kind that puts a price on feelings. Since we're measuring everything else." Emma turned the screen toward her. "Fifteen years of thank-you dinners, gratitude visits, appreciation performances. Standard rates for emotional service provision."

"Emotional service?" Nasreen's voice rose slightly. "Family love isn't a service!"

"Isn't it? Because according to this document," Emma gestured toward Tariq's laptop, "love seems to be something you earn through compliance with performance metrics."

Tariq had been watching this exchange with growing alarm. His laptop chose that moment to emit a concerning wheezing sound and display a blue screen of death.

"Not now," he muttered, jabbing at keys. "Bloody NHS equipment."

"Everything alright there, love?" called the patient in the next bed, an elderly Jamaican man who'd been listening with undisguised interest. "Sounds like your computer's having a moment."

"Technical difficulties," Tariq replied tersely.

"Ah, technology," the man said philosophically. "Wonderful when it works, expensive when it doesn't. Bit like family, really."

Ravi had moved on from the bed controls to examining Nasreen's Tesco bag. "Auntie, why do you keep all the receipts?"

"What receipts, beta?"

"All these receipts in your bag. Look—petrol, parking, samosas from the Indian shop." He held up handfuls of crumpled paper. "Mummy keeps receipts too, but she puts them in a special folder."

Nasreen snatched the receipts back quickly. "Those are for... household accounting."

"Are you going to ask Granddad to pay you back?" Ravi asked with six-year-old directness. "Mummy says when people keep receipts, it usually means someone owes someone money."

The question hit the room like a small bomb.

"That's different," Nasreen said quickly. "Family doesn't charge family."

"But family does track expenses," Emma observed quietly. "Very thoroughly, apparently."

Hassan was staring at his aunt with dawning realization. "Auntie, have you been... billing Dad for these visits?"

"Not billing! Just... keeping accurate records. In case assistance with expenses becomes necessary."

"Assistance with expenses," Hassan repeated slowly. "You mean reimbursement."

"I mean responsible financial planning!" Nasreen's composure was cracking. "Someone has to think practically about these situations!"

The elderly patient in the next bed chuckled. "Family meetings, eh? Always entertaining when money gets involved. Like watching EastEnders, but with better accents."

Nurse Patricia appeared, wheeling a medication trolley. "Everything alright here? Getting a bit lively for the evening shift."

"Just family discussions," Tariq said weakly, still jabbing at his frozen laptop.

"Right, well, keep it down to a dull roar, yeah? Other patients trying to rest." She glanced at the growing pile of receipts on Ravi's chair. "Having a car boot sale, are we?"

"Accounting irregularities," Emma said pleasantly. "Just discovered some interesting patterns in family expense tracking."

Patricia's eyebrows rose. "Ah. One of those families. Well, visiting hours end at eight sharp, so you've got about fifteen minutes to sort your finances."

As she wheeled away, Nasreen attempted to regain control. "Emma, beta, you're making this more complicated than necessary. Family support shouldn't require spreadsheets."

"Shouldn't it? Because everyone else seems to be using them." Emma gestured between Tariq's laptop and Nasreen's receipts. "Very systematic approach to family relationships."

"That's different—"

"How is it different? You track petrol costs, Dad tracks mortgage payments, everyone monitors everyone else's gratitude levels. Seems like a comprehensive accounting system to me."

Ravi had discovered that pressing the nurse call button made a satisfying beeping sound. "Look! I can make the machine talk!"

"Stop pressing that, beta," Hassan said, gently moving his son away from the controls.

"But it's fun! And it doesn't cost money like everything else here."

Tariq's laptop finally rebooted, displaying his desktop with its carefully organized folders: "Hassan Expenses," "Property Investments," "Family Obligations."

"Right," he said, pulling up his will document again. "Where were we?"

"We were leaving," Hassan said firmly.

"But we haven't finished discussing the financial framework—"

"We've finished discussing everything," Emma said. "Including the family expense tracking system that apparently involves multiple parties monitoring each other's investments."

She looked directly at Nasreen. "Tell me, does gratitude have a daily rate, or is it charged hourly?"

Nasreen's face flushed. "You have no right to speak to me like that."

"Don't I? Fifteen years of being measured, monitored, and found wanting by family accountants gives me quite a lot of rights, actually."

The elderly patient next door was now openly listening, occasionally providing commentary: "Ooh, that's a good point... didn't see that coming... family drama better than the telly..."

"Dad," Hassan said, closing Tariq's laptop firmly, "we're done here."

"But the conditions, the performance metrics—"

"Keep them. All of them. We'll take our chances without quarterly reviews."

Nasreen stood up quickly. "Hassan, you're being emotional. Think about Ravi's future, your job security—"

"I am thinking about Ravi's future," Hassan said quietly. "I'm thinking about what kind of family relationships I want him to learn are normal."

He looked at his son, who was now arranging Nasreen's receipts into neat piles. "Ravi, what do you think? Should families keep track of everything they do for each other?"

Ravi considered this with six-year-old seriousness. "That sounds tiring. And not very fun."

"Not fun," Hassan agreed. "But very educational."

As they finally reached the door, the orderly passed again: "Visiting hours ending in five minutes, folks. Time to say your goodbyes."

"Perfect timing," Emma said cheerfully. "We were just calculating the optimal departure moment."

They walked out, leaving Tariq with his frozen laptop, Nasreen with her scattered receipts, and the elderly patient next door calling out: "Best episode yet! When's the next installment?"

Through the window, Hassan's car sat in visitor parking, meter expired but still functional.

Sometimes things worked even when you stopped feeding them exactly what they demanded.