The Rotten Tooth

I was exhausted. Drained. My stomach churned with hunger, and my head buzzed with the early whispers of pain. It had been one of those days when the city of Baku felt less like home and more like a labyrinth, coiled in traffic, noise, and fatigue.

The dreadful traffic jam had me trapped. I watched the clock ticking as minutes stretched into hours. I had long given up hope of making it back to Sumgayit that night — to my small apartment, my own bed, my own silence. The mere thought of the endless road ahead, crawling with brake lights and impatience, sent a cold wave through my spine. If I tried to return home, I knew what would happen: I would awaken tomorrow with that familiar, piercing companion — my migraine. My eternal shadow.

For fifteen years, I’ve lived with this affliction. It’s not merely a physical torment but a way of life, a condition that commands discipline. It’s like raising a spoiled teenager inside your skull — one that throws tantrums if not fed or rested on time, one that lashes out for the smallest breach of routine. No late meals. No skipped sleep. No missed hydration. No loud lights or sudden sounds. And God forbid I get emotional — anger, sadness, even joy could trigger it. It has its own rulebook, and violating it means days of agony.

So I stopped fighting. I surrendered. I pulled over, parked, and stepped into the nearest cluster of restaurants. It was that or collapse.

Choosing where to eat was surprisingly easy. We Azerbaijanis trust our noses and follow the crowd. The place buzzing with the most voices, the one with the subtle, smoky aroma of grilled meat and buttered pilaf — that’s where I went. As I entered, the warmth hit me. It smelled of comfort. Of survival. I found a small table tucked in a corner. Alone. Which suited me.

Around me, life pulsed in full color — families with children, couples chatting, friends laughing over jokes I couldn’t hear. Somewhere above me, a television murmured softly, and Ahmet Kaya’s voice floated from the speakers: "How could you possibly know what I’ve been through?"

I whispered the lyrics under my breath. Not for show. Not for anyone. Just for me. It was a prayer, a reminder. Sometimes only those sitting at lonely tables can truly hear such songs.

When the waiter arrived, I surprised myself. “Coca-Cola,” I said, skipping my usual peach juice. “And please, bring it in the bottle. With a straw.”

I was breaking a rule — just one — and it felt oddly thrilling.

My food came. Steaming. Fragrant. I took small bites, chewing slowly, letting the flavors linger. The migraine was still lurking in the corners of my skull, waiting for a trigger. So I moved carefully, as one does around a wild animal.

And then...

A small hand. Tiny fingers reaching for my bottle.

A boy, no more than four or five, had wandered away from his parents and, without hesitation, took the straw from my Coca-Cola and popped it into his mouth.

I was stunned. I gently pulled it back.

— Oh no, sweetheart. That’s not okay.

— Why not?

— Because it’s not yours. And someone else already used it.

— Why?

— Because... my mouth has germs.

— Germs? Where?

— I promise I’m telling the truth. And you know what? People shouldn't lie.

— Then show me.

— Show you?

— Open your mouth. Let me see.

I blinked. What now? Should I lie to a child? Make up an excuse?

Then I remembered — the decayed tooth. The one way in the back. My old companion. Despite the stares of the people around us, I opened my mouth wide.

— There. See that black one, at the back? That’s the germ.

He peered in. His little brows furrowed, and then his eyes shimmered.

He began to cry. Silent, trembling sobs. He turned and ran to his mother. Through his sniffles, I heard fragments: “...Mom doesn’t let me…”

I wiped his tears with a napkin and knelt beside him.

— Your mom is right, you know. She loves you. That’s why she says no.

He turned and looked at her again. I wondered what thoughts danced behind those big eyes. What stories he would tell about this moment.

— Can I take these napkins to my mom?

— Of course.

He walked back, clutching them like a precious gift. His mother, unaware of the emotional exchange, took them and placed them on the table without much thought.

And I... I sat back down. And I thought.

A rotten tooth. An old, stubborn tooth I had refused to let go. For years, I preserved it. Paid for fillings. Avoided pressure. Protected it from cold water and hot tea. I nurtured it like a wounded bird. Even when it hurt, I justified its presence.

But maybe, today, it fulfilled its purpose.

That blackened tooth — it told a story to a child. A story about health. About love. About why mothers say "no." About why grown-ups sometimes look tired and broken.

That tooth’s mission was complete.

It was time to let it go.

I made the appointment that very night. The dentist understood. He didn’t ask too many questions. After a few deep injections — the root was painfully deep — he pulled it out.

Gone. Finally.

Now, there’s a gaping wound. It will heal, they said. It always does.

But its absence... I’ll feel it. Every time I chew on that side. Every time I remember the child with wide eyes and napkins in his hand. Every time I recall how long I kept something broken, simply because I was afraid of emptiness.

Maybe that’s the lesson.

Sometimes, even pain has a purpose.

Sometimes, we hold onto things — people, memories, even teeth — long after they’ve turned toxic. Because letting go feels harder than living with pain.

But one day, you sit alone at a table, whispering lyrics to yourself, and a child appears to remind you: even decay can teach. Even pain can be kind. Even loss can be love.

And so, we let go.

We heal.

And we live.