But today wasn’t about me. Today was about Sarah.
For as long as I’d known her, she’d been planning this day like it was a precious holiday: the poofy white dress, the over-the-top centerpieces, the man with the sweet voice and an even sweeter nickname. And now, after all the heartbreak and detours, she was finally getting it.
Things with Amir hadn’t worked out. They rarely do when the only thing holding two people together is the idea that theyshould. I wasn’t surprised. Anyone who could willingly be friends with my stubborn, infuriatingly blunt husband, a man who barely tolerated most people and only ever softened for our daughter and me, was immediately suspicious. She’d been devastated for a while—Sarah didn’t do anything halfway, not even grief—but a few months later, she met Sami, and, against all odds, he loved Sarah the way Khalifa loved me—fiercely, inconveniently, and without condition.
And bymet, I meant she almost committed vehicular manslaughter.
It was pouring rain, she was late for work, and he was crossing the street carrying a dozen tulips. She slammed on the brakes, he dropped the flowers, and she leapt out of the car, mortified, babbling apologies while he stood there, drenched and grinning like an idiot. “You owe me lunch,” he said.
It was something straight out of a corny romance movie—which, of course, was exactly what she’d always wanted.
She told me later she didn’t even like tulips, but she married the man who bought them anyway.
Because that’s how it happened sometimes—the universe didn’t send you fireworks or fate written in constellations. Sometimes it just dropped a man with bad timing and good intentions in front of your car, and you had to choose whether you stopped or ran them over.
A door creaked behind me, snapping me from the memory. “Lilly?”
I turned, and my breath caught. Not because of the dress I’d helped her choose—yards of lace and unapologetic sparkle that practically screamedSarah—or the makeup I’d bullied the artists into perfecting down to the last eyelash.
It was her hijab.
Instead of the architectural updo we’d spent months diagramming like it was a structural engineering project, she wore a white scarf—soft, elegant, and intricately wrapped, a single pearl pin glinting near her temple.
“Wow, Sarah.” My voice stalled somewhere between awe and tears. “You look beautiful. When did you...?”
She smiled faintly, cheeks glowing, eyes calm in a way I’d never seen before. “Today’s my first day,” she said. “I just woke up and felt it—the desire to start the next chapter of my life in the purest form I could.”
My throat tightened. Of course she’d picktodayto evolve into the most luminous version of herself. I felt the sting in my eyes before I could stop it, but Sarah, ever prepared, plucked a tissue from the vanity and handed it over before the first tear could even threaten my eyeliner.
“Don’t you dare ruin your makeup before my pictures,” she teased.
I started to reply, but the door opened, and her mom swept in, gasping dramatically before she even fully crossed the threshold. “Ya Allah, Sarah!” she cried, clutching her chest like the sheer beauty of her daughter might stop her heart. She was already crying before she reached her, pulling Sarah into her arms, murmuring blessings and pride and love.
I watched them—mother and daughter folded into each other—and for once, I didn’t feel that familiar pinch of jealousy. I didn’t wish my mother were like hers, didn’t ache for a love I never received. Instead, I felt this swelling excitement deep in my chest because one day, I’d get to tell my own daughter she was beautiful on her wedding day and mean it so fiercely it would also make me cry.
“I’m going to go check on the flower girl,” I said.
The hallway outside was warm with laughter. I found Khalifa crouched near the floor, our daughter Noor standing proudlybeside him, clutching her bouquet like a treasure. When she saw me, she broke into a grin so wide it could split the world in two.
“Mama, look!” she squealed, barreling toward me, her tiny shoes slapping against the tile. “Baba put a flower in my hair!”
I dropped down to her level, brushing a strand away to see the little pink tulip tucked behind her ear. “So beautiful,” I whispered.
Behind her, Khalifa rose, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. He plucked another flower from the bouquet Noor held and stepped closer, tucking it gently into my hijab. His fingers lingered just long enough to make my heart do an inconvenient, familiar flutter it still hadn’t outgrown in five years.
Noor gasped, bouncing on her toes. “Now we’re twins!” she declared, looking between Khalifa and me like we’d just performed a magic trick.
She got scooped up in the whirlwind after that, her tiny hand slipping from mine as Sarah knelt to whisper something in her ear. Whatever it was made Noor giggle, that bubbling, uninhibited sound that always managed to pull a smile out of me, no matter what mood I was in. Then she was gone—vanishing through the doorway in a flurry of petals and excitement—off to fulfill her flower girl duties with the same seriousness she applied to coloring books and bedtime stories.
Khalifa and I lingered for a second, watching her disappear down the hall before we made our way into the ceremony space and found our seats near the front—reserved, of course, thanks to Sarah’s relentless organization—and as soon as we sat down, Khalifa reached for my hand beneath the folded program in my lap, his thumb brushing over my knuckles.
“Do you regret it?” he asked.
I turned to him, eyebrows lifting. “Regret what?”
He hesitated, eyes tracing my face. “Not getting to enjoy your wedding day.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the question. For a second, the memory flashed back—the suffocating dress, the blinding lights, the way my mother’s dissatisfaction filled the room thicker than the scent of jasmine, feeling like a guest at my own life.
