‘If you’re determined to know, they were young and eloped, to the horror of both families, barely a few months into university. My mother’s flight from gentlemen farmer types, I suppose Faris must’ve looked like an exotic escape. He, smitten, went against his family’s desires, including their choice of wife. He married my mother without their blessing. I was born shortly after and my mother was rendered infertile due to a difficult birth. Not that it’s required, but in my father’s culture such circumstances are grounds for taking another wife. It was probably just a matter of time after that.
‘We lived in the UK, and at some point he moved back to Dubai and took another wife. Why they didn’t divorce is a matter only for them but I suspect supreme stubbornness may have something to do with it. For both of them.’
‘Oh.’
Sometimes I should remember it’s really not good to pry. I reach to cover his hand with mine by way of an apology. This is uncomfortable for him, that much is obvious. I’m touched that he would tell me.
His eyes are unseeing as he gazes out the window at his side.
‘What’s habibti?’ I ask, drawing his attention back.
‘A term of affection, I suppose.’ Standing, he pushes back the chair. ‘You’ll hear it used on a daily basis, used and abused. Now, if you’re to get to work at all today, I suggest you dress.’ He smiles then, a flicker of suggestion alight in his eyes. ‘I can help if you’d like.’
‘I’m sure I can manage.’
‘Yes, but where’s the fun in that?’
