"You're too slow," Omma complained. "Cut the pineapple next."
An ache crawled in Samira's hands as she stood in the kitchen, chopping various vegetables for her mother. She wore a big, oversized hoodie, her tangled bun of hair concealed under the hood. She bit her lips, struggling to hold the knife without shaking.
"Sorry," Samira mumbled, grimacing.
Omma set a large pineapple on the granite counter: "Make the curry."
Samira put the knife down, looking at the pineapple, then back at her mother.
"Do I have to?"
"I need to shower." Her mother adjusted the loose scarf on her head, rubbing her tired eyes. "Guests are coming later."
"But . . ." Samira bit her lip. "I'll just cut it. I want to do something else."
"This is the one thing I have for you." Omma clicked her tongue. "You never help me."
Closing her mouth, Samira took a deep breath through her nose, chest flooding with guilt.
"Alright, fine, I will do it."
Spices tickling her nose, Samira sneezed in her sleeve. A breeze flew through the window, and the sound of a lawnmower was faint in her ears. Her movements were as slow as a snail, and she hoped her mind would avoid the memory of why she refused to do this for her mother in the first place.
Samira gritted her teeth, mixing the ingredients in a pot. As it simmered, she cut the pineapple hastily.
But once Samira got the last piece, the knife fell to the floor, and she hissed. Clatter filled the room—she winced at the pain on her skin, watching the fresh slit on her thumb bubble with crimson.
"Samira, what is that?!"
"Nothing, ma," Samira replied, kneeling to pick up the knife.
"Moodevi."
Rolling her eyes, Samira ran her finger under cold water. She huffed at herself, struggling to plaster the bandage on her cut with her trembling fingers.
The bandaid sat disfigured on her finger; frustratedly, Samira kicked the counter in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she rested her forehead against the cupboard, eyes shut.
Samira.
Like an intruder, the bittersweet memory invaded Samira's brain, susurrating her name in his voice. She sealed her lips tightly, cringing.
Be careful next time.
Samira grimaced, shaking her head to block out the gut-wrenching sonance in her head.
"Fuck off," she mumbled.
A few moments later, the dish was cooked, its sweet and spicy aroma filling her senses. Samira stirred the sticky, golden curry with a wooden spoon—she hoped Omma would be satisfied with it and leave her be for the rest of the day.
After Samira washed her hands, she grabbed her keys and headed for the door. The moment she reached for the handle of her car, those familiar footsteps echoed behind her. Her heart sank.
"Hello, Samira kutty."
Wapa called Samira by her childhood pet name in a sing-songy voice. She watched her father approach her with a sheepish grin, dimples pressing into his cheeks.
"Hi," Samira mumbled, putting her keys in the pouch of her hoodie.
"How are you?" Wapa pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
"I'm fine. How was your day?" Samira asked, pursing her lips into an unwieldy smile.
"My day was good!"
Wapa, of course, went on and on about his day. All of his words went through one of her ears and out the other; she nodded inattentively, waiting patiently for the concluding corny joke so he'd walk away.
But then the feeling in the air changed with uncomforting silence. Caught off guard, Samira's gaze went from her car to his eyes. Wapa's shoulders slouched, and his smile fell.
"What?" Samira asked.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah . . ."
He took a step closer: "Can I talk to you, Samira?"
Gulping, Samira felt her ears bubble with searing heat. The abrupt tone of voice, that familiar sentence alone was enough for Samira's heart to leap into her trachea.
Samira cleared her throat, pulling strands of her hair behind her ears: "What's up?"
"There's something you're not telling me." Wapa crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. "You keep pushing back your marriage."
A reasonable answer wasn't to be found; every excuse on her mental list had been checked off. In those very seconds of silence, Samira sought some sort of response, one that would make sense.
Thoughts teemed her mind, gushing overwhelmingly like running water.
There's one last person you have to stand up to. It's your father.
With those words echoing in her head, it clawed up words Samira buried away.
"Okay, I'm just going to say it. I . . . I don't understand why you're so obsessed with my marriage," she seethed, ripping the bandaid off. "Maybe there's something you're not telling me either. Is that all you see right now? Just a bride? Am I not your daughter?"
Just as her anxieties turned to statements, Wapa clenched his jaw, closing his eyes. Now that Samira finally got that off her chest, she prepared herself for the snowballing of words to detonate from his mouth.
"Don't talk to me like that." Wapa pointed his finger at her, eyes dark with rage. "I am your father."
Samira scoffed to herself, crossing her arms over her chest. Her gaze cemented to the ground.
"All you do is go out; you never stay home. And when you're home, you always stay in your room. What have you been doing?"
The bickering was usual for her father when things didn't go his way. She held a penetrating stare at the patterned driveway, attempting to count the brown and grey pebbles, but the brutal voice in front of her hindered the tallying.
"You're going to be alone if you go on like this. If you keep lying and pushing this away, you're going to end up miserable like those other kids. There will be no one left for you. Do you want to be like them? With no one?"
"Do you not have faith that my time will come?" Samira shrugged nonchalantly, pushing harder. "You can't even tell me why—"
"Stop talking!"
Grimacing, Samira fastened her mouth shut, holding her breath. The ferocious lion in Samira died when Wapa raised his voice—she was now back into the little lamb that she'd always been.
"You're so stubborn. Today is Thursday, and you go out every Thursday. Do you think I am stupid? Are you seeing someone?" Wapa interrogated, taking his glasses off.
Say something, Samira. Her heart begged, pounding hard in her ears. Defend yourself. You're brave.
"If you lie to me, I will never talk to you again. Look at me," Wapa demanded, standing in front of her. It wasn't until Samira looked up when she realized her cheeks were wet with tears. Her face reddened at how quickly this man's words brought an influx of emotions.
"Did something happen while you were studying?" He asked, his eyes filled with acrimony. "Tell me the truth. You asked me to change your flight so you could come home early."
Her underarms were damp, hands clammy. The angry man before her had always forced the truth out of Samira like a prosecutor. The scariest thing about it all was not knowing what he'd do, if he'd hold her and tell her everything was going to be okay, or if he'd ice her out for days until she'd apologize for disappointing him.
Samira creased her eyebrows, sniffling. Her mouth flooded with the bitter truth, aching to leave. But once her mind inundated with the possible consequences, she swallowed it back down.
A voice that sounded almost like her own, except it was child-like, whispered in her ear.
Lie, Samira.
Samira pursed her lips into a tight line, her countenance deadpanned. Slowly, she shook her head.
"No," Samira answered, biting the inside of her cheek. "Nothing happened."
Wapa kicked the tire of her car; Samira flinched, feet nearly jumping from the ground.
"Bullshit!"
As soon as Wapa walked away and slammed the front door shut, Samira burst into tears, sobbing in the paws of her hoodie. Teeth chattered; her broken voice disrupted the humming breeze. The ache in Samira's chest flushed from out of her mouth, and her cheeks flared with fierce heat.
Samira plummeted into the seat of her car, wiping her cheeks aggressively. Her mouth was glued closed; Samira concealed her face with her palms, inhaling slowly.
I hate this. I hate it here. I hate myself. I hate breathing.
The whole fight replayed in her head; Samira recognized every moment where her heart begged her to surrender, but her brain urged her to scream. But it was all cut out by her father's words that chopped her into bits.
Wapa can never know. He doesn't deserve to know.
Samira realized she sat in front of her house for far too long. Just as she pushed the keys into the ignition, there was a knock on her window. Samira leaped in her seat, expecting to see a pair of glasses that belonged to her father, but it was someone else.
Samira neared the pane, glancing up. She met a reflection of her own eyes, but the irises were darker, like black coffee.
Ayan.
Her brother, who came around every now and then, stood next to her car. He peered through the glass, scratching his thick beard and squinting his eyes. He donned a Supreme t-shirt and black sweatpants, one hand in his pocket.
Swallowing down the lump in her throat, Samira lingered her hand hesitantly over the window switch, sniffling.
"Hey, open the window," he asked quietly, his breath fogging the glass. Ayan's voice was like Samira's. A bit more masculine, but not as absorbing as hers.
"I want to talk to you."
Ayan's words melted her frozen fingers; Samira slid the window down, gaze glued to her lap. He placed his arms on the opening of the window, leaning close.
"I saw what happened . . . . are you okay?"
Samira nictitated clumsily, caught off guard by the sudden thoughtfulness.
"No."
"Okay. Where are you going?"
Samira shook her head, her skin crawling with discomfort: "Doesn't matter."
"Well." Ayan looked away for a moment, sighing. "For stuff like this . . . I'm glad to see that you're standing up for yourself."
Creasing her eyebrows, Samira snapped her gaze up at him.
"It's your life, okay. You're a grown-ass woman." Ayan widened his eyes. "You don't always have to listen to Wapa. It's time you realize that."
Samira's nose tickled, tears befogging her eyes.
"I know—" Ayan lamented. "I know we don't talk a lot, but I'm here for you, okay, Sami?"
The nickname Ayan had for Samira since she'd spoken her first words softened her heart, allowing it to return to its normal rhythm.
Ayan caressed her head softly and walked away. Samira observed him through her windshield, floored by his driftless affection. It felt as though she lived a different life; Ayan talked to her in a gentle tone, and all the memories of their fights were overlooked.
Samira drove herself silently to the clinic. Her pulse drubbed in her ears as she pulled the heavy door, nearly out of breath.
Often, Samira would find herself walking into Dr. Ayub's office like it was her safe haven. She liked that Dr. Ayub let her lie on her couch, curled up in a ball. Against her chest was the lamb, who she still had yet to crack.
"So, what have you been up to? What's happening?"
Samira nestled into the pillow, sighing.
"I've been crying a lot, sleeping a lot. I miss Ramadan, when everything was nice," she replied, voice trembling. "I've been looking for a job, instead of doing the makeup artist stuff. I just want to keep myself preoccupied."
"Are you okay? You sound like you just cried," Dr. Ayub asked, adjusting her lavender hijab.
Samira's lips curled downward, and tears brimmed her eyes.
"My dad and I fought before I came here. Well, it was just him yelling." Samira sat up, pulling her hood off her head. "He was mad at me because I'm not ready to get married."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Dr. Ayub picked up her clipboard on the coffee table between them. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
Samira removed her hairband, running a hand through her locks.
"I stood up for myself, for once," she began. "I let out everything I felt."
"Oh." Dr. Ayub nodded, taking another note. "I'm very proud of you."
A meager smile surfaced on Samira's lips: "I think my brother was too."
"Your brother? Can you tell me about him?"
"I actually kind of hate him? But . . . what he said meant a lot to me. Like, he was happy to see me do that."
"You hate him?" Dr. Ayub chuckled, her soft laugh filling Samira's ears. "Why?"
Hating someone is impossible—one of the things Samira learned in Liverpool. Despite the sibling feud, Ayan was still her brother. Samira saw Ayan's heart in his encouragement, something she'd never witnessed from him before.
"I mean, how can I?" Samira gripped her locks frustratedly. "But for what he said, it was easy to forget all the fights of ours growing up. That he got to have it better than me. And when . . . when he punched me in the face a few years ago."
Dr. Ayub inched closer, furrowing her eyebrows: "Why did he punch you?"
"Because—" Samira paused, her emotions mixing chaotically. "I think we were both so jealous of each other growing up. He hated me because I was the favorite kid, and I hated him because he got to do whatever he wanted. But his behavior affected everyone in the family, and so one day, I opened my mouth. I had a black eye for two weeks."
"And what did you do after that?"
Samira shrugged: "I haven't really talked to him since then. Just small conversation. But I think today . . . I really understood him."
"What did you understand?"
The traumatic memory between Ayan and her had left everything so dark, but now, there was light.
"He always did what made him happy." Samira pursed her lips into a smile. "Of course, I don't always agree with how he does it or what he does. He can be rude, manipulative, irrationally angry. Stupid. But today, for once . . . he's on my side. Like . . . he gets me. But I have yet to get . . . him. But I learned just that about him today."
Dr. Ayub's eyes softened, and she rested her right leg over her left knee.
"Do you forgive him, Samira?"
"I'm not sure," she sighed. "I always avoided him before this."
"Try not to now, okay? We can look into that." Dr. Ayub took another note on her clipboard. "Now that we know your feelings, let's talk about your father's. Have you ever thought about why he's so concerned about your marriage?"
Samira shrugged: "I don't understand why he would be?"
"Okay, well . . . what are your parents like? In terms of their marriage? Are they together?"
Samira snorted, wiping away stray tears.
"If they divorced now, I'd feel no difference."
Dr. Ayub narrowed her eyes at Samira for a moment.
"Is that a joke?"
Her smile faded immediately; Samira shook her head.
"Oh, no. It's not, actually."
"Oh, well. I assume it's bad, and you grew up around that."
Samira nodded: "I think it's part of the reason why my last relationship went to shit. He even asked me why I couldn't marry him, and my first thought was my parents."
"Do you think your father cares so much about your marriage because he doesn't want that for you?"
"I mean—" Samira blinked rapidly, voice breaking. "I tried asking him. Sometimes I feel like it's because he wants me to have some sort of . . . stability. As if my marital status defines my worth. Like . . . I know I'm more than that."
"Some parents hate being emotional with us. It makes them bad communicators. Your dad might be having a hard time telling you why this concerns him so much," Dr. Ayub explained. "He worries about you a lot, right?"
Samira licked her lips, petting the lamb in her lap.
"Yeah, he does. Always." She swallowed.
"Your father probably doesn't want your marriage to end up like your parents'," Dr. Ayub acknowledged. "And I think Allah put your last boyfriend in your life to show you that. Because your father was too hesitant to tell you."
Lips glued together, Samira found herself tongue-tied.
"How do you know that?"
"Just connect the dots, Samira." Dr. Ayub replied, shrugging. "You know your last partner meant a lot to you regardless of how bad it went. But did you ever pray for anything while you were with him?"
"Yeah, I did . . ." Samira shook her head at herself—she wasn't sure if she was bewildered or shocked. "I wanted Him to tell me if he was right for me. I asked for that."
And then, Samira paused abruptly. Over those seven particular months in Liverpool, Samira would still think of Allah in times of doubt, even if she didn't roll out the prayer mat to prostrate. Samira would cry apologetically, asking for a sign at times when her heart was mauled up by the words and actions of the man she loved—but the answers to her duas were right under her nose all along.
Samira's heart began to detach itself from him, slowly and subtly—God wanted her to feel every element of hurt as it did, all for her to learn something about herself, about life.
"But I was being answered when . . . when I started drifting from my ex." Samira looked to her lap. "I always thought time would tell. And it did when I didn't even realize it."
"Why do you think that?"
"Because he—" She swallowed. "He'd always ask me if I would be there in the future. And I couldn't give him a fucking answer."
"Do you think you can now if you could?"
"No." Samira shook her head. "Not at all."
"Why?"
"Because he has hope I'll come back to him, and I don't know if I will," Samira answered. "He made me promise to see him again."
"Whether you have the same hope or not, I think you should tell your father about what happened. At least try to do it knowing how he'd react." Dr. Ayub responded, sitting up from her chair. "Maybe he can help you."
"My dad is going to hate me." Fiddling with her fingers, Samira sighed. "He'll never change."
Dr. Ayub giggled, sitting up from her chair. She put her clipboard down, clicking her tongue.
"You can't change your parents, Samira."
Samira cocked an eyebrow.
"What do you mean?"
"You can't change or fix anyone. As soon as you understand that, life is easier. People will only change for you if they want to," Dr. Ayub began. "But the only person in the world that you could ever change is yourself."