“Sorry,” she said after a beat. “I guess I’m still a little shocked that you exist. It feels like spotting Bigfoot in a suit. Or, you know, a unicorn with tenure.”
Khalifa’s brow lifted. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” she said, eyes flicking between us, “you know Lilly. She’s been the reigning president of the Anti-Men, Anti-Marriage Coalition since high school. Her manifesto was basically ‘romance is a capitalist scam.’ So you can imagine my reaction when we met for coffee, and she told me she was getting married in a week.”
I shifted in my seat, the back of my neck warming, but Khalifa stayed perfectly composed, fingers loosely interlaced on the table as if this were a seminar and not my personal humiliation on full display.
“I’ve never been asked to meet someone’s friend before. This isn’t exactly...traditional.”
“I’m not her friend,” Sarah corrected. “I’m her family. And I don’t want to see her get hurt—even if this is six months too late—especially after everything she went through.”
His composure faltered. “Went through?”
“Growing up with a woman who makes Cinderella’s evil stepmother look like a saint.” She shook her head, a humorlesschuckle slipping out. “I mean, her mom isliterallythe worst person alive. Yeah, we all know Arab mothers treat their sons like they walk on water simply for existing, but this was a whole different species of awful. She didn’t just like Lilly’s brothers more than her—she didn’t like Lilly,period. Most parents would kill to have a daughter as successful as she is, but her mom saw that ultrasound marked with anFand apparently thought it stood forfailure.”
Khalifa glanced in my direction, but I kept my eyes forward, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. My stomach dropped so fast it could’ve filed for frequent flyer miles.
I forced a laugh that sounded about as natural as a car alarm. “Wow, okay, maybe let’s not unpack myentirechildhood trauma in the hospital cafeteria?”
“Entire childhood trauma?” she echoed, brows lifting. “You thought you were dying when you got your first period because she pretended not to know what one was.”
My face went nuclear.
“You wereeleven. You took the bus to the ER sobbing because you thought something was medically wrong with you. And when you went home and asked her why she didn’t explain menstruation to you, she blinked and said she ‘forgot’ because she never had to deal with that kind ofmesswith your brothers.”
The cafeteria felt too blinding, too loud, every light swiveling to shine specifically over me.
Sarah, of course, did not take the hint. “Or how about when she’d give you the silent treatment for weeks at a time if you even dared to defend yourself? The nights you’d sit outside her room instead of sleeping, slipping notes under the door that saidSorry. I love you. Please forgive me, only for her to push them right back out?”
“I—” I stumbled, words tripping over each other. “Whatever. That was forever ago. Can we just—?”
But she was already mid-spiral, her eyes flashing back to Khalifa. “She wouldn’t even buy Lilly clothes. She made her wear her brother’s hand-me-downs throughout school. Lilly—all bright colors and sunshine—was forced into baggy greys and blacks. It was like watching someone dim a lightbulb on purpose.”
“Sarah,” I warned, panic rising.
“And then she got a secret tutoring job one summer,” Sarah continued, ignoring me. “I went over to see the new clothes she’d bought, and her mom walked in on our little fashion show—”
“Sarah,” I repeated, sharper this time.
“—took one look at Lilly in this super cute pink dress that highlighted those gorgeous, mile-long legs of hers—”
“Sarah.”
“—and slapped her across the face.”
The words hit the air like a gunshot. My cheeks burned. I couldn’t look at Khalifa, but I felt his attention snap back to me again.
“Just because she bought herself some clothes,” Sarah said with a disbelieving scoff. “I went home that day and hugged my mom so tight I nearly cracked a rib.” Then she turned that same unwavering gaze on Khalifa. “So yeah, maybe this isn’t traditional. And if you don’t know her favorite color or that she only eats the crust on pizza, it won’t be the end of the world. But if you hurt her, or make her feel like she has to shrink herself again, I will shove my four-inch heel into your eye socket.”
Silence settled over the table. I dared a peek at him from the corner of my eye, but Khalifa wasn’t looking at Sarah. He was still looking at me.
This wasn’t something I’d ever planned on telling him. It was the only time she’d ever laid a hand on me...because she didn’t need to. Her words punctured more than a slap ever could. And true to form, the worst part of that day wasn’t even thesting. It was the humiliation of Sarah—my best friend, who had the kindest, most loving mother in the world—standing there, watching mine treat me like something scraped off the bottom of her shoe.
I never willingly shared anything about my mom with Sarah, but some realities announced themselves long before you were ready to admit them out loud. Eventually, the seams started showing: the floppy boy clothes I insisted were a “phase,” the empty seat at every award ceremony, spelling bee, valedictorian speech, school play—tiny heartbreaks I kept trying to explain away long after I’d run out of excuses for them. You could only rearrange the evidence for so long before someone caring and perceptive started putting the pieces together.
So I offered her the watered-down version—carefully measured sprinkles of toxicity, the amount of palatable hurt someone with a healthy upbringing could digest without choking. The kind that didn’t make people shift uncomfortably in their seats. Just enough honesty to explain the cracks, never enough to expose the whole foundation.
Besides, no one liked to hear gossip about your mom beingmeanto you. Meanness sounded petty and juvenile—like a child complaining about curfews or getting grounded. It only sparked interest if things got physical. That’s when it mattered. That’s when it counted. Bruises were something people could quantify, measure, sympathize with. Pretty stories for ugly truths.
