Bambi shirks beside Baba’s chair
as Mama yells, not in Pashto,
but in fragmented English—
soeveryone will hear,
soeveryone will understand.
“Promised! He ispromisedto another.”
He brings dishonor to himself,
his people, and Allah.
He brings dishonor to his family. To me! To you!”
For the span of a second, I hate her.
But Mama is not evil,
or even unreasonable.
She is reverent and virtuous,
and I have willfully disregarded
the rules of my faith.
She is bursting with anger,
with disappointment,
and I cannot blame her.
“Hala,” Baba says, calm, rational, always.
“He is happy. For now, let him be.”
“He isengaged!”
My lungs seize.
If there were doubts,
they have been razed.
I imagine her, hearing it all,
realizing I was not forthcoming.
I picture her face, bewildered,
then broken,
and her heart, smashed.…
Because of me.
