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I accept the praise with a stuttering heart. “I am, too,” I tell her.
She grins at us both before stepping off the stage. Once she’s gone, Imtiaz leans toward me. “I’m sorry about her. She can get sentimental.”
“It’s the desi mom thing,” I assure him with a wave. “My mother does it all the time, too. The weeks leading up to the Pakistan trip, she would burst into tears at random moments when she remembered I was getting married.”
“I think my mom’s so emotional because she won’t have a child in the house anymore,” Imtiaz suggests. “But she won’t be alone for long. She’ll have you to keep her company, and vice versa.”
I freeze. “What? What do you mean keep her company?”
He frowns. “I told you about my surgical schedule, didn’t I?”
When I shake my head, his frown deepens. “Well, when we get back home, I’ll have a lot of work to catch up on for my residency. I’ll be pretty busy studying both at home and at the hospital. You’ll be alone a lot, which is why I was going to suggest my mom come stay with you on nights when I’m working. I know you get spooked being alone.”
No, I don’t get spooked. I can’t sleep alone not because I’m afraid someone’s loitering outside the window, but because I feel like I don’t have anyone around to be with me. No one to go to bed with, and not even in a sexual way. In a “when I wake up, I know you’ll be there” kind of way. And I can’t do that with my mother-in-law.
My breath hitches at the thought of being alone in that empty apartment. Imtiaz startles at the action. “Maya, are you okay?” He puts his hand on my back. “If you don’t want my mom to come stay with us, she doesn’t have to.”
Then I’ll be labeled as the wife who ruins the relationship between a mother and her son and forces him to choose between them. I don’t think Imtiaz would do that, but then again, I don’t really know him. He could be completely different once we’re married and settled into our lives, but I knew that was a risk, and I was willing to take it.
I inhale deeply a few times, then lift my chin. “It’s fine,” I assure him. My mouth stretches and I hope that I don’t look like the Joker. “Thank you for telling me now—I might have been shocked to go back home and find out that we’re cooking for three instead of two.”
He tilts his head to the side, his expression torn. “If you’re sure...”
“I am.” And I am, really. At least he had the decency to tell me something big like this. Sure, he forgot to tell me, but the point is he planned to tell me. And he did it out of consideration for me. He knows that I don’t like being alone, so he tried to figure out a solution for that. He didn’t knowingly hide anything from me. He didn’t listen to me bare my soul while knowing that we wouldn’t be parting at the end of it all. He didn’t hold my hand while knowing that he’d have to let it go. He didn’t kiss me while knowing I was someone else’s.
If Imtiaz ever left me, I know it wouldn’t hurt. But if he stays, then we can figure it out. It’s a win-win scenario either way.
Imtiaz has my best interests at heart. Imtiaz is willing to make things work with me. Imtiaz is my future.
Maybe if I say it enough times, it’ll finally feel right.
29
Maya’s Law #29:
You have to stand up for yourself.
When we get home, I want to go right to sleep. But instead I find myself on the floor in Ammi’s room, leaning against the foot of the bed. It’s 10 p.m., yet the room around me bustles with activity. With the wedding officially tomorrow, my whole family is in hyperdrive, making sure everyone has the right jewelry and shoes and clothes. All the girls have also gathered to sing a few songs, play on a dhol, and spend some time with me before I join someone else’s family.
I stare blankly at my feet. I hadn’t gotten mehendi done on my feet at home, but Fizza did it for me the first night I arrived. I study the rich, intricate design swirling on my skin. It was a tedious process to sit through, and I couldn’t move for a while after it was done because I was worried I’d smudge the wet paste, but I’m super grateful she did it. Now I have something to look at while Ammi slathers my skin with coconut oil. I refuse to take the bangles off my wrist, though, in case she sees Sarfaraz’s name written on me.
With the mehendi out of the way, all that’s left is the baraat, the day the nikkah would be read. Technically we’ll be doing our nikkah at Dhuhr at the masjid and then have our reception in the evening. And the final event is the walima, but that won’t be until two days after tomorrow, to give everyone a break.
“Oi, Maya!” my mother’s older sister, my Kinza Khala, calls out.
I snap into focus, blinking heavily. “Jee?”
Kinza Khala fixes me with an annoyed stare. “I’ve called your name three times. What’s wrong with you?”
I stammer, my mouth opening and closing a few times. I’m saved when my younger cousin Faryal speaks up for me. “Oh, Khala, bechari ko chodeya,” she says. She plops down on the floor next to me. A mischievous twinkle flashes in her eyes as she nudges me with her arm. “She’s getting married tomorrow. I’m sure her focus is somewhere else.”
My face flushes while everyone goes, “Ahhhhh,” laughter in their voices. I duck my head, then nudge Faryal back, harder. “Why are you like this?”
Faryal giggles. “I’m sorry, Maya Baji.”
“No, no, don’t be sorry,” my mom’s cousin, my Amira Khala, interjects. She’s a woman even older than Ammi. Her gray hairs are well disguised with brown dye, but there’s no hiding the wrinkles forming on her forehead. “You’re right. A young woman right before her wedding should be somewhat worried at least.”
My face heats up. I nudge Ammi, who sits beside me, with my elbow. “Ammi, get them to stop,” I plead.
