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“Fine, that’s true,” I relent. “But kicking him out of your family just for wanting his own life is extreme, don’t you think? You said that you wanted Mummy to be able to live for herself. Why don’t you want the same for your son?”
“I might have made the decision in the heat of the moment,” he confesses. “There was so much disappointment, I felt, coming from Sarfaraz at the time. He lied to me about what he was studying, he didn’t want to take over my company, his marriage ended very messily.” He runs his fingers through his graying hairs. “Everything came to a head, and it all exploded. I want my son to be able to live for himself, but it came through deceit, after all I had done for him. Despite the pain, it was still a betrayal.”
“But then why didn’t you try to reach out? He reached out to you.”
“I suppose over time, I had gotten so used to the anger, it was easier to live in it than to admit I was wrong.”
I tap my fingers on my cup. “Living in anger may be easy, but isn’t living in love more rewarding?”
Mr. Porter sucks in a breath. “I never really...thought of it that way. It’s much easier to continue on the way that we’ve been instead of trying to overcome everything.”
“It may be easier, but I think you should at least try.” As I say the words, I realize I may be acting a tiny bit...hypocritical. I’ve been holding so much anger at Sarfaraz for not telling me that he knew I was marrying his brother, and I didn’t allow myself to consider letting it go. I wanted to stay in my anger because it was easier. Life’s too short to stay mad at the people you care about, and Sarfaraz has become one of those people. He might be someone I have to keep at arm’s length for a while, at least until my feelings fade, but when I think about it, not having him in my life at all hurts more than having what small amount I can of him. He was still a great friend to me while we traveled. Maybe, someday, we can go back to being the easy stranger-friends we were at the start of this trip.
He clears his throat, staring into his mug. “I admit I may have been hasty in the past,” he says. “And I do have my share of regrets. But I don’t know if he even wants to reconcile now. He said he came because Imtiaz asked him. It doesn’t mean he wants to mend our relationship.”
“He might surprise you.” A smile teases my lips. “He’s certainly surprised me, more than once.”
Mr. Porter tilts his head to the side. “As long as we’re sharing, may I say something?”
“Of course.”
“Imtiaz is my dear son, but he can be...all over the place,” he admits. “It’s the doctor thing. Sometimes he doesn’t know where his priorities should lie because he’s stretched so thin. Because of that, he can lose focus on what matters. Don’t give up on him.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I won’t.”
Mr. Porter stares at me above the top of his cup. “Do you know why my first marriage ended?”
When I shake my head, Mr. Porter goes on. “We were very young,” he begins. “Fresh out of college. We rushed into things. My parents didn’t want the relationship to be haram, and her parents didn’t want her to marry a Muslim. She...had a complicated relationship with them, so she would do anything to spite them, including marrying someone they disapproved of. She gave birth to Sarfaraz a year or so later, and that’s when we realized we may not have been as ready as we convinced everyone we were.” He plays with the handle of his mug, not quite looking at me. “All of our friends were still going out late at night, meeting up whenever and wherever, had enough money to blow on stupid things. But we had a spouse to come home to every night, a mortgage that needed paying, and a baby that seemed to drain us of all our finances.”
He takes another sip, longer this time, and I wonder how his tongue isn’t burnt. “At some point, we realized we lost who we were in trying to make us work. We decided we’d be happier without each other, so we divorced not long after Sarfaraz’s first birthday. She hasn’t kept much contact with Sarfaraz, and even less with me. And just like that, I wondered how the life I planned for myself went so wrong.” He rubs a hand over his forehead. “There I was, barely twenty-six, with a son who relied on me for everything. Yet, I worked tirelessly, studying in law school while still being the best dad I could. And I owe so much of that to Ayesha.” He practically glows at the mention of his wife’s name. “We met by chance at the masjid. We fell for each other pretty fast, and before I knew it, I was married again, but I knew this time I wasn’t making a mistake.”
I’ve been quiet through his whole speech, but now I ask, “How? How did you know?”
“Because I can take one look at Ayesha and know that she understands me in ways no one else does. She’s willing to check out my interests. Even though my ego always wants to be right, I’m ready to see from her point of view when we argue. And at the end of the day, no matter what, we come back together, because we see all the good and the bad and pick each other anyway,” he replies. “I know you have a good heart, Maya,” he says, which makes the guilt sit heavier in my gut. “My divorce was necessary for me to find happiness, but I don’t want you or Imtiaz to go through what I did. Remember that as long as you’re there for each other, you can make it through anything.”
I stay silent, confusion flooding me. Because when I think about it, it hasn’t been Imtiaz who has done those things for me, and who I do them for. It’s been Sarfaraz.
He steps away from the kitchen, leaving his now-empty mug on the counter. When he looks at me again, kindness reflects back at me. “Make sure you get some sleep,” he says. “I’ll give some thought on what you’ve said, as long as you give some thought to what I’ve said.”
With that, he shuffles out of the room.
32
Maya’s Law #32:
Happily-ever-after isn’t guaranteed.
I step into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. For a second, I stare at my empty bed. I’m already dreading the terrible night’s sleep I’m going to get lying there alone.
With a jolt, I realize I want to spend the night with Ammi. It’s my last night as a single woman, and I want to spend it in my mom’s arms. I know she can be a lot, and sometimes it feels like she’s holding me back, but she’s my mother, and when we go home, I won’t be returning to her house with her.
I grab a fresh set of underwear and shalwar kameez and pad over to the bathroom. I peel my clothes off, kick them out of the way, and then step into the shower stall.
I let the hot water hit my face for a while, then when I open my eyes, I stare down at my mehendi-adorned skin and it hits me—this henna is on my body because I’m getting married tomorrow.
I’m getting married tomorrow. To someone I don’t love. To someone I’m not even sure I fully know.
I slide down to the floor. The water continues to pelt at me, but I ignore it as I bring my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs. I sit there for a long time. I don’t know how long exactly, but eventually the water shifts from hot to cold, and I force myself to stand back up. I furiously scrub my body. When I step out of the shower, I’m sure I’m missing a few hairs, and my skin is red and raw, but that purge is exactly what I needed.
