Love, Hate & Other Filters(35)

“That is … that is this Thursday,” my mom yelps. “Maya—”

“I’m sorry. I know I should have told you earlier, but I wasn’t sure how. I thought you’d be so mad you’d hate me.”

“I am mad. But how can I hate you? You’re my daughter. Your dad is right. We want what is best for you. We want you to be happy.” My mom and dad look at each other, then at me. Something passes between them in that look. Some kind of silent communication married people share. And Hina’s right: maybe I’ll be able to share that sort of glance with my own husband one day, but on my terms.

My mom stands up from the table. “The food has gone cold now. Let me reheat it.” She sighs. “I guess you are your father’s daughter—always wanting to see new things.”



The morning light streams into the kitchen. I don’t think anyone of us slept. It’s clear in our bleary eyes and sluggish movements and hesitant syllables. All of yesterday’s dishes are still in the sink.

“Maya, you left food on that plate. You have to rinse it properly before putting it in the dishwasher,” my mom reminds me.

After Hina left, my parents didn’t say another word to me about NYU. They didn’t say another word to me, period. Mostly they were huddled in their room, presumably talking about me, but there weren’t any raised voices, so I took that as a hopeful sign.

“Sorry, Mom.” I’m not going to argue that our new dishwasher is connected to the garbage disposal so we don’t have to be all old school about loading the dishes.

There were little cracks in the parental college resolve last night and I know what Hina would advise, so I try to channel her patience and understanding of my parents’ anxieties.

My dad is at the table drinking chai. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy my parents steal another one of those silent, meaningful looks at each other. My dad gives my mom a wan smile.

“If you’re going to be on your own. You can’t just eat off dirty plates. God help you.” My mom shakes her head.

“On my own? You mean—” I turn to look at my mom who just shrugs. “Dad? Does that … I can go … to NYU?”

My dad nods once.

I’ll remember this nod forever.

I turn from the sink, wipe my hands on my jeans, and wrap my arms around his neck and whisper a thank you. I look at my feet. They are still on the floor. I don’t know how this is possible.

My dad strokes my hair. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed that to happen. It grounds me. I am here; this is happening.

I walk back to the sink to hug my mom.

My dad clears his throat. “Your mom is right. Just because you’re going to be far away doesn’t mean you can eat off filthy dishes and whatnot.”

I have a feeling we are not talking about clean dishes anymore, but I add extra dish soap to the sponge to get every speck of food off the plates, just in case. I nod and let my dad continue.

“When you’re in the dorm, you will treat it just like you are in this house. All the same rules apply. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Dad.” I smile, nod, and continue loading the dishes.

“That means you are going there to study, and that’s it.”

“We want you to make friends, too,” my mom adds. “Nice ones. Girls. And maybe you can join the Muslim Students Association. You know, Yasmeen told me all about the one at her college. She organized their Eid party. It sounds perfect for you. You could film all the events.”

I bite my tongue. Literally, I bite down on the tip of my tongue to stop the words that are about to roll off it. My muscles tense, but I keep a smile on my face. “That’s a great idea, Mom.”

My mom turns to my dad and nods, clearly pleased with herself.

“Maya, your mom and I are giving you permission to go to NYU, but don’t think this means you can go behind our backs again. No more surprises.” My dad pauses and gives my mom that silent look again that tells her to continue while he leaves the kitchen. Just before he walks out, he kisses me on the top of the head. Approval.

“You understand what your dad is saying, right? You’re growing up. You need to be careful, especially when you’re on your own. Especially with … boys. You see what I’m saying?”

“Yes, Mom. I promise. I’ll focus on my studies. No surprises. I’ll make you proud.”

I don’t know what else to say because of course I’m going to go out, and I hope there will be boys or a boy at least. Maybe even one here. But my assurances appease my mom, even if they feel false to me. I will study. I do hope I make them proud. But this is my first taste of adventure, and as Kareem might say, I’m going to carpe the hell out of every diem. Maya Aziz, beyond Batavia. I can’t wait to tell Kareem I did it. And Phil. I want to tell him, too.

But I’ll think about that awkwardness later. For now, I want to revel in the happiness that fizzes inside me. New York. New life. My parents’ change of heart has to be a sign of good things to come—maybe Phil’s not in my future, but my other dreams can be. They already are.

I tell my mom I can finish up in the kitchen. But she doesn’t move. When I turn to look at her, she’s gazing at me with tears welling in her eyes.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, beta. You’re growing up. Hina was right. You are a wonderful young woman. May God grant you a long life and every happiness.”