Amal Unbound(31)

“Nasreen Baji treats me well,” I managed to say. “I’m lucky I work for her.”

“Good.” She exhaled. “I know it’s not easy, but I know how strong you are.”

Strong? What did it mean to be strong? Did I have any other choice?

Before I could say anything more on this, the front door opened.

My father stepped inside. He walked straight over to me and hugged me, his face wet with tears. With his arms around me, for the first time since I came home, I cried.

The room grew quiet when I pulled away.

“I’m sorry.” I wiped my eyes.

“Don’t be,” my mother said. “You are free here.”

The door opened again. “I thought my ears were playing tricks on me.”

Parvin! I raced over to hug her.

“Where is Omar?”

“Oh, Amal.” She winced. “He’s at orientation this weekend.”

“Orientation?”

“Yes, for the boarding school, remember?”

I remembered now. Our conversation by the stream. It felt like a lifetime ago now.

“He starts in the fall, and they wanted the new students to come spend the weekend there to get acquainted. He’s going to be so upset he missed your visit.”

“I’m so glad things are moving along with that,” I told her.

And I was. If my own future had to be yanked away, at least Omar had one.



* * *



? ? ?

We ate dinner in the courtyard that night. I fixed myself a plate of kardhai chicken and the fresh wheat roti my mother had made minutes earlier. I had no idea how badly I missed my mother’s food until I took a bite; Hamid was a good cook, but there was nothing in the world that could compare to my mother’s food.

“Did you know I’m learning to read?” Rabia told me.

“Seema’s teaching her.” My mother nodded. “She’ll start school in a few weeks.”

“When can I start?” Safa frowned.

“When you can behave!” Rabia stuck out her tongue.

Seema interceded to cut off their argument. My mother grabbed Safa and put her in her lap.

When the conversation turned to the preparations for Hafsa’s sister’s wedding, everyone started talking at once, and I found it difficult to focus. I felt overwhelmed by the laughter, chatter, and squeals of my sisters—the sounds that I had missed so much. I tried to still myself and soak it all in, to hold on to when I was gone.

I used to complain to Omar about my chaotic home. I took any opportunity to escape to the sugarcane fields when the noise became too much. Why did I get so annoyed at the sound of my sisters’ chatter? Why did I get frustrated with my chores? Why did it take leaving my ordinary life behind to appreciate how precious it truly was?

“Okay, girls,” my mother said when the last of the rotis vanished from the hot pot. “Seema, watch the baby while I get the girls ready for bed?”

“I can do it,” I said.

“Nonsense. You’re our guest here for a short while. Relax.”

Guest?

It was just an offhand remark.

They meant it kindly.

But to call me a guest in the only place I ever belonged—the word cut like a jagged stone against my heart.





Chapter 33





I helped Safa and Rabia put on their matching yellow frocks for the mehndi. Tonight was the first of the wedding festivities, and it was my favorite day because unlike the actual wedding ceremony tomorrow, which could be a bit somber, the mehndi was a happy celebration where everyone danced, sang, and decorated each other’s hands and feet with henna.

“Thanks for getting the girls dressed,” my mother said as she stepped into our room. “Here are your outfits.” She handed Seema and me our freshly pressed clothes.

I put on the orange silk kamiz and green churidar pajamas that I’d worn to my cousin’s wedding late last year. After so long wearing simple cotton, this fabric felt smooth and light against my skin.

“You look pretty,” Seema said. “Orange always looks good on you.”

“So do you,” I told her. “I don’t remember your outfit. Did Amma have it dyed a different color from when it was mine?”

“No. This outfit is new!” She grinned. “The tailor measured me twice to make sure it fit just right!”

“It’s beautiful,” I said. I was glad Seema got to wear an outfit that was all her own, but knowing the reason why—because she had replaced me as the eldest in my family—saddened me, too.

Our conversation was interrupted by a knock on the front door.

“Amal!”

I knew the voice before I turned around. It was Hafsa!

“You’re back!” She hugged me. “I just heard. I knew your father would come up with the money! I knew he would!”

“I’m only here for the weekend,” I said.

“Oh.” Her smile faded.

Hafsa grew quiet and glanced at Seema and then back at me.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here now,” she finally said. “How’ve you been?”

“It’s been hard, but I’m managing,” I said.

“Oh,” she said.