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I set my bin down next to hers, then head over to my desk to put the gift bag next to the ones that a few other parents gave me. I give her a strange look. “Anaïs, you literally work with children.”
“I said I don’t want them, not that I hate them, Maya,” she corrects. She wraps her burnt orange hair into a bun at the base of her neck. “But these kinds of questions, sitting there for hours when they cry, having to drop everything for them...” She clicks her tongue. “Not for me.”
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say next, so I get back to work. Having conversations that go beyond the surface-level is awkward with Anaïs because I don’t know her very well. We’re coworkers, yes, but I don’t know if I’d call us friends. I haven’t had much success keeping friends in the past, so it’s just easier not to get too close to anyone—that way, I won’t be upset when they inevitably leave.
I head over to the student tables and start picking up stray crayons and neglected papers.
We both work quietly for a while before Anaïs lets out a long, dramatic sigh. I stop and look up at her from my spot by the bookshelves. “Care to share, Anaïs?”
She smirks at my use of the phrase that we say to the kids. “Oh, nothing... I’m just thinking about how when you come back from Pakistan, I’ll have to refer to you as Mrs. Porter.” She smirks. “Miss Mirza rolls off the tongue so naturally. Plus, the name sounds better.”
I stiffen, then continue rearranging the bookshelves, putting my back to Anaïs. “Well, who says I’m changing my last name? Religiously, I’m entitled to keeping it.”
“I’m honestly surprised you’re even still going through with the wedding,” she blurts, and at my offended expression, she quickly backtracks. “Oh, no offense, it’s just...you guys have been engaged for a long time, is all.”
“Two years isn’t that long,” I argue, though even by Western standards, it is quite a while. If it were up to the desi parents, engagements would only last as long as it takes to plan the wedding. “I think it’s time I put the guy out of his misery.”
“At least he’s cute,” Anaïs points out. “The last four dates I’ve been on have all been duds.”
“Maybe that’s because your only goal is to go home with any woman who’ll have you,” I tease as I pass her on my way to the crafts closet.
She snorts. “You don’t have to call me out like that.” She picks up the plastic toy box from the floor. She’s going to take it to the kitchen area in the school, where we can properly wash the toys before we put them away until the fall. “I’m super jealous you’re having a destination wedding. Pakistan sounds beautiful.”
“It really is,” I breathe dreamily. I haven’t been back in a long time, so I’m excited to breathe in the sweet air of my motherland. “And it makes sense for the wedding to be in Pakistan. When my family came to Canada, it was only my parents. All my extended family is in Karachi. It wouldn’t make sense to have everyone come here when it’s much easier for a few of us to go there.”
Anaïs clicks her tongue. “Still, if I ever got married, I don’t think I could afford to have it anywhere but city hall.”
“With our salaries, I wouldn’t blame you,” I agree. “I’m lucky Imtiaz’s family is...” I pause, thinking of the right word.
Anaïs smirks. “Loaded?”
I chuckle. “Not how I’d put it, but yes.”
“I’m not sure how you managed to land someone who’s hot and rich. With all the stuff you’ve told me about your love life, it seems almost impossible.”
I open my mouth to protest but stop. “Yeah, fair enough. I’m happy to have found someone. Imtiaz is kind, he’s smart and funny.” I press my lips into a thin line. “He’s great.”
Anaïs whistles low. “Except you don’t seem happy like a bride should be a week out from her wedding.”
Yikes. I flex my fingers for a second, sneaking a look at the ring on my finger. Then, I go over to Anaïs and take the box from her. “I’ll sanitize the toys,” I say. “And let’s be quick about this.” I brush past her, heading for the door. “I still have some important things to do.”
3
Maya’s Law #3:
Trying to be stress-free only stresses you out more.
The house is too quiet without the trill of Ammi’s constant chattering on the phone, or the whistling of the kettle, or the anger-tinted voices of ARY News blasting on the TV. I drop my keys into the bowl beside the front door, my stomach clenching at the reminder that this could very well be the last time I do this while this place is still considered my home. When I come back from Pakistan, it’ll be my mother’s home.
I guess it’s always been my mother’s house, though. She picked out the royal blue couches that sit in the living room. She chose the muted gray paint that coats the interior. She decided on the decorations, from the forest painting hanging above the television to the crystalized ornaments that line the shelves attached to the walls. It’s just been me and her in this house since I was twenty, when Hibba Baji got married at twenty-six. Anything that’s truly mine is up in my room. Or, at least, it was. I already moved almost all my belongings into the apartment I’ll be sharing with Imtiaz. When we get back, I’ll take whatever’s left here, and that’ll be it.
I ignore the thought and head upstairs so I can change and pray Dhuhr and Asr together, the two prayers I usually miss while I’m at work. Once I’m done, I traipse into the kitchen. I twist my hair into a bun. I struggle for a second with the long brown strands that swing against my back, but once I secure the tie, I peek into the fridge. Bare shelves stare back at me. At first I’m confused, and then I remember that because I’m leaving for another country, I haven’t been grocery shopping. Ammi would be so mad if she knew I wasn’t cooking and instead ordering takeout, but she’s not here to berate me for it. I shut the door at the same time as I pull out my phone to place an order with Uber Eats.
Just as I’m about to set my phone down, it rings.
I bite the inside of my cheek when I realize it’s a video call from Imtiaz. I inhale deeply through my nose and answer the call. “Hey!”
Imtiaz’s handsome—there’s no denying that. His striking green irises are the first thing anyone notices about him; they pop against his light brown skin. His bushy brows are surprisingly lighter than his hair, but that’s because he dyes his hair darker. When I found out about it in university, he swore me to secrecy because he didn’t want it to affect how he picked up girls. What a wild turn of events that I ended up being the one engaged to him.
