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“There’s someone I invited to the wedding,” he begins, his tone casual, but with the way his fingers fidget I know he’s nervous. “I didn’t mention who it was earlier, but now that you’re on your way I think I should—”
A bell echoes up the stairs and in through my open door. When the bell rings again, I stand up. “Oh, hey, that’s my dinner,” I say. I look back over to Imtiaz, who still looks pretty nervous. I decide to let him off the hook, because I don’t care who he’s invited last minute; that’s an issue he’ll have to take up with our mothers. “Listen, I have to eat and finish packing. Whoever you invited to the wedding is fine with me. It’s your wedding, too; it’s all good.”
“Really?” Imtiaz blows air out of his lips. “Because—”
My screen abruptly goes dark, the white circle flickering in the middle of my screen before shutting down completely. I try to turn my phone back on, but a battery-bar icon appears with red at the end, signaling that I need to charge it.
I groan but plug my phone in. I set it down on the side table and leave to grab my meal from the front door. When I come back after a few minutes, my phone is back on and charging. I debate calling Imtiaz back, but I’m hungry, and I really do have a lot of work to do before I get on my plane tomorrow. He’s gotten my blessing to add his last-minute guest to the list; he doesn’t need anything else from me.
So, I sit on my bed and dig in.
“You are not going to believe what Asma Mami did,” Hibba Baji says the moment I answer her video call later that night. It’s 1 a.m. here, which means it’s 10 a.m. in Karachi, so everyone is up and bustling about. She’s still feeding breakfast to her six-year-old daughter, my niece, Iqra.
I balance my phone on my side table, then return to packing. “Tell me. I’m sure it’s riveting.”
She ignores the sarcasm in my tone. “She told Ammi last night that her daughters were not wearing the clothes you picked out for them.”
I stop for a second. “I picked out clothes for our cousins to wear?”
Hibba Baji pauses. “Didn’t you?”
“I’m sure Ammi picked them out for me. Or I don’t remember.” I shrug. “There’s been so much stuff happening for the wedding, and I feel like I’m not even planning most of it myself.”
“Don’t feel too special,” she says. She stuffs another piece of egg into Iqra’s mouth, then nods at her when she asks to be excused. “Ammi took over most of my wedding planning when I got married, too.”
“I’m not surprised,” I retort. I fold a kameez and stuff it into my suitcase. “Mom is the most control-freaky person I’ve met.”
“True.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, back to what Asma Mami said. So, she doesn’t want her daughters wearing the suits you picked because she thinks Ammi was intentionally trying to make them look bad to make us look better. Then Ammi went and talked to Rashid Mamu, and then—”
She keeps going, but I drown her out as I flit around the room. All the stuff I personally need for the wedding, like jewelry and clothes, is already in Pakistan. Ammi took it with her when she went at the end of May. All I’m packing now are some things just in case of an emergency—spare clothes, toiletries, chargers, and an adapter for my phone. I grab my backpack from the floor. It holds my iPad, my travel documents, and a few other things I’ll need for the fourteen-hour plane ride. I only have to bring myself to Pakistan, and even that was a struggle to achieve. I’m a teacher, and my area manager refused to give me vacation days for my own damn wedding.
I check and double-check and triple-check to make sure I have everything I need from the list I made.
“Maya!” Hibba Baji’s voice screeches me to a stop.
I look over to the phone, irritation thinning my mouth. “What?”
Her annoyed face fills up the entire screen. “Have you even been listening to me?”
“Nope,” I admit cheerily. At her annoyed nostril flare, I roll my eyes. “I don’t care about petty family drama. Tell Asma Mami to let her kids wear whatever they want. I don’t care. I’m too busy trying to sort things out on my end before I leave tomorrow.” I hold up a finger. “In fact, you shouldn’t even be telling me any of this stuff because as the bride, I deserve to be as stress-free as possible.”
“That’s not how it works,” she retorts.
I give her a confused look. “Those are literally the words you said to me when you got married nine years ago.”
Hibba Baji avoids my gaze. “That’s what I thought,” I tease. I duck out into the hall, grab my hairbrush from the bathroom, then step back into my bedroom, which I still cannot get used to seeing so bare. We briefly talked about finding a place to live after the wedding, and when Imtiaz mentioned living with his parents, I flat-out refused. Don’t get me wrong, my in-laws are as great as they come, but I’m not sure I could ever have sex in a house where my father-in-law might be in the next room. Plus, after spending my whole life living under my mother’s roof, I knew I wouldn’t be able to continue living somewhere I couldn’t fully be myself. Thankfully, Imtiaz agreed, and he secured us a place close to the hospital where he was doing his residency.
I return my attention to the call. “I’m just excited to start the next phase of my life and get Ammi off my back.”
“Maya,” Hibba Baji lightly chastises. “You shouldn’t talk about Ammi like that. You know she only worries about you being single because she doesn’t want you to be on your own.”
My fingers pause on the zipper of my suitcase. I frown at my sister. “Baji, I’m twenty-eight. I went and lived on my own halfway around the world for two years, remember?” I zip my luggage closed. “It’s insulting that Ammi thinks I can’t take care of myself. You know how much convincing it took to get her to leave for Pakistan without me?”
“It’s just how our culture is,” Hibba Baji reminds me, her tone gentle.
“What, that unmarried women are infantile?” I grumble.
“No.” She pauses, then winces. “Okay, maybe. But it’s also the burden of being the younger child. Ammi’s bound to continue to smother you, especially because you still live at home.”
