I winced. “So he’s one of those.”
“One ofthose,” she confirmed, looking down at one of the newborns, tiny and impossibly still. “And then came the inevitable question:‘You’re going to wear the hijab before we get married, right?’”
My jaw tightened.
“At least he waited until the end of the date,” she went on, her voice small now. “Most of them leave as soon as they see me.”
Something hot and ugly flared in my chest because the only thing worse than men werethosemen—red-pilled, self-righteous, cloaked in false piety. The ones who thought being born male gave them divine authority to comment on every molecule of a Muslim woman’s existence.
If you didn’t wear hijab, it was“When are you going to wear it? You know it’s mandatory, right? You know you’re going to hell, right?”And when you finally did wear it, suddenly it was,“Your hair’s showing, your neck’s showing, is that your ear? I can guess the shape of your body through your clothes. Your shirt should be longer, looser, heavier. Wait—why are you wearing pants? You should only wear skirts, dresses, abayas. Is that mascara? Blush? Foundation? Why is your face even showing? You should be a niqabi.”And then, the classic encore uttered with the smug conviction of someone who thought modesty was a competition:“If you’re not going to wear it properly, then just take it off, take it off, take it off.”
It was exhausting, disgusting, a bastardization of everything Islam ever meant. Because hijab was supposed to be beautiful, a reclamation of dignity, not a weapon to wield against women. But somewhere along the way, they’d turned it into one.
And yet, out of all Khalifa’s infuriating qualities—and there were plenty—I was fortunate enough to say that, despite being a thirty-six-year-oldfob, he’d never once commented on how I dressed.
Not that I dressed immodestly, but there was always room for improvement. Living in the West made it hard to fight the nagging, subtle urge to let a tight top slide, to loosen my hijab just a little more each day. But I always tried my best. And he never made me feel bad for leaving the house with makeup on, never looked at me like I was somehow less of a Muslim for existing in the middle ground between expectation and self-expression.
It was a simple kind of respect. The kind you didn’t notice until you realized how many men didn’t offer it.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” I said finally. “Men suck. But you’ll find your naseeb.”
“I just want to be in love, you know? Not the ‘delete your personality for the sake of modesty’ kind, but therealkind. Like you and Khalifa.”
My smile faltered. Khalifa had his moments—soundless, fleeting gestures of kindness. But then there were the silences, the walls he built so high I couldn’t see over them, no matter how far I stretched. He never talked about his family, or his childhood, or what kept him up at night. Living with him felt like sharing a house with a stranger. One that was sort of a nice guy disguised as an ass who locked the door to his world the second I tried to step inside.
He did sweet things the way people breathed—quietly, accidentally, without fanfare or the faintest hint that he expected anything back. It wasn’t just that he didn’t look for gratitude; it was like he preferred the emptiness that followed. Like he’d grown accustomed to the rhythm of giving, giving, giving...and then the familiar absence that trailed behind it. Like he’d spent his whole life believing there was nothing to return.
For a while, I’d chalked it up to emotional illiteracy, convinced he simply couldn’t handle a thank-you without combusting. But now I was starting to wonder if it wasn’tincapability so much as unfamiliarity. Maybe he didn’t stiffen at appreciation because he rejected it—maybe he stiffened because no one had ever handed it to him before, not in a way that felt real.
There was always this split-second pause, a flicker of startled recognition, before he smoothed it over with practiced indifference. As if he couldn’t quite process the idea that someone might notice him, value him,choosehim, and actually want him to know it.
“Yeah,” I told her. “Lucky me.”
But somewhere deep inside, guilt pricked me again—because she was still waiting for love while I was pretending to already have it.
WHEN I GOT HOME THATnight, I did what I always did—shed my day like a second skin. My shoes went flying somewhere near the entryway, my bag landed on the console table with a thud, and my keys skittered across the floor like they were trying to escape me. The loft smelled faintly of garlic and cumin—Khalifa cooking again—and I was halfway to sighing in relief when I froze.
There were people sitting in my living room.
“Mama?” My voice came out small, almost childish. “Baba? What are you guys doing here?”
My mother’s eyes swept over the mess I’d just made—the shoes, the bag, the trail of exhaustion I’d left behind—and her expression didn’t shift, but something about the silence made me feel twelve again.
“I—uh,” I stammered, scrambling to pick everything up. “Sorry. Long day.”
“We wanted to visit our daughter,” she said finally, her tone cool. “Is that a crime?”
Her words stung. She hadn’t spoken to me since the wedding; the messages I’d sent had sat ondelivered, gathering dust in the digital void. But still, I smiled. Because that’s what I did.
“Of course not. I missed you.” I bent down and kissed both their heads before sitting across from them.
My mother’s gaze flicked toward the kitchen, where the sound of a pan sizzling filled the air. “You’re going to sit and leave your husband in the kitchen?”
I turned to see Khalifa at the stove. He didn’t look up, but I could tell he’d heard her.
“I just wanted to catch up,” I said, half-rising from the couch, unsure of myself. “But, um, yeah. I’ll help.”
Khalifa glanced over his shoulder. “It’s fine, Lillian. Sit with your parents.”
