“They’re tears of joy, Kamal.”
“The doctor is mistaken. He is more than beautiful; he is perfect, my wife. My world is complete now.”
“I can’t stop looking at him, my Sheikh. I’m in love with our son, just as I am with his father.”
“I’m a lucky man,habibti, because his father is also completely crazy about you.”
One year later
“You seem very thoughtful, my daughter,” Amapola says by my side.
“I’m mentally reviewing the past year, my mother-in-law. So much has happened.”
“Are you sad about your father?”
“Yes, very much so, but we couldn’t expect anything different, could we?”
Despite all the support Kamal provided, hiring the best team of lawyers money could buy, there was no stopping the conviction.
Dad committed so many crimes that when giving the sentence, the judge said that if his case were laid out page by page in a straight line, it would cross the length of the state.
I went to support him nonetheless because I wouldn’t have been true to myself if I hadn’t. It was with horror that I watched my father suffer a massive heart attack and die in front of me, just one minute after the sentence was given.
I was in shock, and the only reason I didn’t faint was because I had to help my mother.
It was the only time I saw her show genuine emotion. I could tell by her expression that she truly loved him.
I offered to spend some days in Boston with my son to keep her company, but she declined.
About a month later, however, she called me, asking if instead of staying at our family mansion, which now belongs to my husband, she could move to a senior living community where Zoe’s parents live.
At first, I thought it was a nursing home, but she told me it wasn’t. They have individual houses but only accept people over fifty-five—my mother is fifty-six. There’s a medical center and also group activities and sports.
I never imagined my mother would want something like that, but she’s been living there for about six months, and her mood has improved a lot, as has the way she treats me. I think it might be the Macy effect—Zoe’s adoptive mother.
“I am a fatalist, as you may have noticed, so forgive my judgment, but I think that considering the type of person he was, it was for the best,” my mother-in-law says.
“Yes, probably.”
“Changing the subject, look at those two: can you believe it?”
I turn to where she’s pointing. Kamal and Zarif each hold one of my son’s hands, helping Ahsan take his first steps.
“They’ve always fought?” I ask.
“Always. They have very similar temperaments.”
“And Irfan?”
“He is much like his father in temperament. The three of them are actually, but Kamal and Zarif are a mix of both of us. Irfan, on the other hand, is the quiet type, but when he explodes, it’s scary.”
“We’re jealous,” says my sister-in-law Djamila from behind us.
I roll my eyes. “Forget it. You have a mother-in-law. Leave me in peace with mine,” I joke.
Nawra and Iesha approach, laughing.
“Nice try, blondie, but we’re not giving up our Romani[26] mom,” Nawra says.
