Chapter 6: The Call to His Parents
The silence after was different from before.
Not the heavy, breathless quiet of two bodies spent and tangled. Not the satisfied hum that had settled over them like a blanket, warm and temporary. This was something else. Something that crept in through the window with the fading light, slow and cold, filling the spaces between them until Layla could feel it pressing against her ribs.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. The sheet was twisted around her legs, damp in places she didn't want to think about. Beside her, Omar's breathing had slowed. She could feel the heat of his body, the weight of his arm draped across her stomach. His fingers were still curled loosely against her hip, possessive even in rest.
The call to prayer had come and gone. Neither of them had moved.
Outside, the city was shifting into evening—car horns, distant voices, the clatter of someone's dinner being prepared in the apartment next door. Normal sounds. Ordinary life.
She felt like she was drowning in it.
"Omar."
He stirred. "Mm."
"We need to talk."
His eyes opened. He turned his head on the pillow, and she watched him come back to himself—the slow blink, the way his brow furrowed, the moment he remembered where he was and what they had done.
"Okay," he said. His voice was thick with sleep.
She sat up.
The sheet pooled around her waist, and the cool air hit her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. She pulled the fabric up, covering her chest, tucking it under her armpits like a towel. It felt stupid—modest after everything—but she couldn't lie there naked and say what she needed to say.
Omar watched her. He didn't reach for her. Didn't try to pull her back down.
He just waited.
"We can't keep doing this," she said. "This. Falling into each other like—like we're not accountable to anyone."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You regret it."
"No." She shook her head. "That's not—no. I don't regret it. I regret that I can't regret it."
He sat up too, slower, his back against the headboard. The sheet fell to his lap, and she saw the marks she'd left on his shoulders. Half-moons. Red crescents. Evidence.
"I don't understand," he said.
"I know you don't." She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around them. "You think because we love each other, because we're going to get married, that it makes this okay. That it's not really haram if the ending is right."
"Isn't it?"
"No." The word came out sharp. "It's not. It's haram, Omar. What we did—what we've been doing—it's haram. Every time. Every single time we fall into each other, we're digging the hole deeper."
He didn't argue. Just looked at her with those steady, patient eyes.
"I know you think I'm being dramatic," she said. "I know you think I'm—what? Overthinking? Being too strict? But I've spent my whole life trying to be good. Trying to be the daughter my parents deserve. Trying to be the Muslim I'm supposed to be. And now—" She pressed her palm flat against her belly, hidden under the sheet. "Now I'm pregnant, and we're lying to everyone, and I just—"
Her voice cracked.
She stopped. Breathed. Started again.
"I just need one thing to be clean," she said. "One thing. And right now, this—us, like this—isn't clean."
Omar reached for his underwear on the floor. He pulled them on under the sheet, then stood and found his jeans. He didn't look at her while he dressed. Just moved through the small space, gathering himself, becoming proper again.
When he was fully clothed, he sat on the edge of the bed. Close enough to touch. Far enough to think.
"Okay," he said.
She blinked. "Okay?"
"You're right."
"I am?"
He nodded. "A month ago, I would have told you no. That we could wait. That we were strong enough to resist. But I've been lying to myself for months, Layla. Every time I pray, I'm asking for forgiveness for something I already knew I was going to do again." He looked at her. "You're right. It's haram. And we need to stop."
She let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Don't thank me yet." He reached for his phone on the nightstand. "Because I'm about to do something that's going to make all of this real in a way it hasn't been."
"What do you mean?"
He didn't answer. Just unlocked the screen, scrolled through his contacts, and stopped on a name.
Baba.
Layla's stomach dropped.
"Omar—"
"You said we call tonight." He looked at her. "After maghrib. It is maghrib."
"I know, but—" She grabbed his wrist. "Not yet. We haven't—we haven't figured out what we're going to say."
"I know what I'm going to say."
"Omar, don't."
He looked at her. And for a moment, she saw something in his face she'd never seen before. Not fear. Not guilt. Just quiet, unshakable resolve.
"Trust me," he said.
Then he pressed call.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times.
Layla let go of his wrist. She sat frozen, the sheet pulled up to her collarbone, her heart hammering in her ears.
On the fourth ring, the call connected.
"Salaam, habibi!" His father's voice filled the room—warm, cheerful, the kind of voice that made you want to sit at his table and drink tea and forget the world existed. "You remember to eat today? Your mother was just saying we need to come visit. How is school? You need money?"
Omar smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Salaam, Baba," he said. "No, I don't need money. I need—" He took a breath. "I need to talk to you and Mama. Both of you. Can you put me on speaker?"
A pause.
"Everything okay?" His father's voice had shifted. Still warm, but edged with caution.
"Yes." Omar closed his eyes. "Everything's okay. I just—there's something I need to tell you."
"Hold on."
A rustle of movement. Muffled voices. Then: "Okay, we're both here. What's going on?"
Omar opened his eyes. Looked at Layla.
She was trembling. She could feel it—the fine, involuntary shiver running through her muscles, up her spine, into her jaw. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.
"Baba, Mama," Omar said. "I've found someone."
Dead silence.
Then: "What?"
"I've found someone," he repeated. "I want to marry her."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"The daughter of who?" His mother's voice—sharper than his father's, more direct. "Which family?"
"The Haddad family."
Layla heard the gasp through the phone. Hers or theirs, she couldn't tell.
"The Haddads?" His father, again. "Abu Layla's family? The ones in America? That's—" He paused. "That's the family we stayed with when you were small."
"Yes."
"Baba, that's—how did this happen? You haven't seen them in years. We haven't—"
"Baba." Omar's voice stayed calm. Steady. "I need you to call Abu Layla. Arrange a meeting. There are things I need to say in person. To all of you."
"Omar, what is—"
"Please, Baba." His voice cracked at the edge of the word. "Trust me."
Silence stretched. Layla could hear the hum of the phone, the static of distance. She imagined his parents sitting in their living room in Riyadh, looking at each other, trying to understand.
Then his father spoke. Slower now. Softer.
"When do you want us to call?"
"Tonight," Omar said. "Tomorrow. Whenever you can. But soon. This week, if possible."
"This week." A pause. "Omar, what's going on? You're scaring me."
"I know." Omar's hand was trembling. He looked down at it, fingers splayed on his knee, and she saw the shake. "I know. I'm—I'll explain everything. Just—please. Call them. I'll call Abu Layla myself tomorrow. But I wanted you to hear it from me first."
"Does her family know?"
"Not yet. They will."
Another pause. Then his mother's voice, thick with something Layla couldn't name: "Is she a good girl, Omar? Is this—is this what you want?"
You can't see your grandchildren, though. You can't see what grew from this. Not yet.
Omar's eyes were on Layla.
"She's the best person I know," he said. "And yes. This is what I want."
The call ended.
Omar lowered the phone to his lap. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just sat there, staring at the dark screen, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
The room felt smaller now. The walls closing in. The scent of earlier—sweat and sex and mint tea—had faded, replaced by something sterile and tense. The golden light of maghrib had drained from the curtains, leaving only grey. The city outside hummed its ordinary song, indifferent.
Layla looked at him.
His hand was shaking.
She reached out. Took it in both of hers. Pulled it to her lips and pressed them to his knuckles.
"You did it," she whispered against his skin.
He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.
"What did he say? Your father—at the end—"
"He said he'd call." Omar's voice was hoarse. "He said—" He cleared his throat. "He said to have coffee ready when he comes."
Layla laughed. One small, breathless sound.
"That's it?"
"He said 'this better be good, habibi,'" Omar said. "And then he said Mama was crying, but he didn't know why."
"She's crying because her son called about marriage. That's—that's good, Omar. That's happy crying."
"I know." He turned to look at her. His eyes were wet. "But she doesn't know why we're really doing this. She thinks it's love. She thinks it's simple."
Layla reached up. Touched his face. Her thumb traced the line of his cheekbone, the edge of his beard, the corner of his mouth.
"It is love," she said.
He closed his eyes.
"Now mine," she said.
His eyes opened. "What?"
"My parents." She pulled the sheet up higher, tucking it under her arms. "I need to call mine."
"Now?"
"Now." She reached for her own phone. "Before I lose my nerve."
She scrolled to Mama.
The phone felt heavier than it should have. Her thumb hovered over the call button. She could feel Omar watching her, feel the weight of his gaze, the quiet pressure of his presence.
"Together," he said.
She nodded.
She pressed call.
It rang once. Twice. Layla's heart hammered against her ribs. Before the third ring, the line clicked open.
"Salaam, ya hilwa." Her mother's voice—warm, familiar, busy. "Just a minute, I'm putting the rice on. Can you—hold on—"
Layla heard the clatter of a pot, the rush of water.
"Mama."
"Hold on, habibti, just—"
"Mama."
Something in her voice must have shifted, because the noise stopped.
"Layla?" Her mother's tone changed. Sharper now. Alert. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Are you sick?"
"I'm okay." Layla's voice came out steadier than she felt. "Mama, I need to talk to you and Baba. Both of you."
A pause.
"Why?" Her mother's voice dropped. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened. I just—" Layla closed her eyes. "I have something to tell you. Something important."
"Layla, you're scaring me."
"I know. I'm sorry." She opened her eyes, looked at Omar. He nodded. "But I need to say it to both of you. Together. Is Baba home?"
"He's in the garage. Layla, what is—"
"Can you get him? Please?"
Another pause. Then her mother's voice, quieter now: "Okay. I'll get him. Don't hang up."
The line went muffled. Layla could hear footsteps, a door opening, her mother's voice calling her father's name. Distant. Muffled.
Omar took her free hand. Squeezed it.
She squeezed back.
Time stretched. Seconds felt like minutes.
Then: "Layla?"
"Baba."
"You're on speaker. Your mother's here." His voice was measured. Calm. The voice he used when something was wrong and he didn't want to panic. "What's going on?"
Layla's throat tightened.
She looked at Omar.
He looked back. Steady. Sure. He moved his lips without sound: Together.
"Baba, Mama," she said. "I need to tell you something. And I need you to listen before you say anything."
Her mother made a small noise, tight and worried. Her father said nothing.
"I've—" Layla swallowed. "There's someone. Someone I want to marry."
Silence. Heavy. Thick.
"You want to—" Her father's voice was flat. "Marry who? Someone in Syria? Layla, we just got back. You haven't been in school for a month. What are you—"
"His name is Omar Khalil."
The silence that followed was different from before. Deeper. Heavier. She could hear her mother gasp.
"Khalil?" Her father's voice cracked. "Abu Omar? The family from—"
"Yes."
"But—" Her mother, this time. "Layla, we haven't seen them in years. Years. How do you even—when did you—"
"In Syria," Layla said. "They were there. Visiting. His grandmother lives in the same neighborhood as Baba's cousin."
"Iranian?" Her father's voice sharpened. "He was there? In Syria? And you—"
"We saw each other," Layla said. "A few times. With the families. And we talked. And—" She closed her eyes. "And I love him. And I want to marry him."
The words hung in the air.
"You love him," her mother repeated. "Layla—"
"Mama." Layla's voice cracked. "Please. Just—can we talk? In person? Omar's parents are going to call you. They'll arrange a meeting. We just—we wanted you to hear it from us first."
Another silence. Longer this time.
Then her father exhaled. A long, slow sound.
"This is why you've been so quiet since you got home," he said. "This is why you haven't been sleeping."
"Baba—"
"I'm not angry." His voice softened. "I'm just—I'm surprised. That's all. I need to think."
"You're not—" Layla's voice trembled. "You're not upset?"
"I don't know what I am." Her father let out a breath. "But I love you. That's not changing."
Her mother spoke. Quieter now. Softer. "When his parents call, we'll talk. The four of us. And we'll figure this out together."
Layla pressed her palm flat against her mouth. Hot tears slid down her cheeks.
"Okay," she managed. "Okay."
"We'll call you tomorrow," her father said. "After we've—after we've digested this."
"Okay."
"I love you, habibti."
"I love you too, Baba."
The call ended.
Layla let the phone drop to the mattress. She was shaking. Crying. Full-body shivers that started somewhere deep in her chest and worked their way outward until her hands were trembling so hard she couldn't hold them still.
Omar pulled her into his chest.
She went willingly. Arms around his waist, face pressed to his shoulder, tears soaking into his shirt. He held her, one hand at the back of her head, the other pressed flat between her shoulder blades.
"He said he wasn't angry," she whispered.
"I heard."
"He said he loves me."
"I heard that too."
She pulled back. Looked at him. Her face was blotchy, her eyes red, her hair a tangled mess. She didn't care.
"They don't know," she said. "They don't know about the baby. They don't know why we're really doing this."
"They will," Omar said. "When we're ready."
"And if they never—"
"They will." He cupped her face. "We'll make sure they do. But not tonight. Tonight, we just—we did the hard part."
She nodded. Swallowed. Wiped her face with the back of her hand.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay."
She laughed. Shaky. Wet. "We keep saying that."
"Yeah." He kissed her forehead. "We're going to be saying it a lot."
The room was almost fully dark now. The city lights crept through the curtains, casting pale orange lines across the floor. Layla pulled the sheet tighter around herself and stood.
"I need to pray," she said.
Omar nodded.
She walked to the bathroom, closed the door. She heard him move on the other side—the creak of the bed, the pad of his footsteps, then the soft rustle of his prayer rug being unrolled.
They would pray together, though separately. Apart but facing the same direction. Mecca. Kaaba. Allah.
She stood in front of the bathroom sink, the sheet around her like a shroud, and looked at herself in the mirror.
Then she washed her face—fumbling with the wudu in the small space, the weight of everything pressing down on her chest—and stepped back into the room to find her own rug.
She unrolled the rug with hands that wouldn't stop moving.
The fabric whispered against the floor. She smoothed it flat, faced east, and stood there for a moment with her palms pressed together and her eyes closed. Behind her, she heard Omar's voice rise and fall in the next room—or maybe it was the same room. The apartment was small enough that everything bled into everything else. The walls didn't keep secrets.
She raised her hands to her ears.
"Allahu akbar."
The words came out cracked and thin. She cleared her throat and tried again.
"Allahu akbar."
Better. Steadier. She folded her arms across her chest and began to recite. Al-Fatiha. The words she'd known since before she could read, carved into her memory so deep she could say them in her sleep. Usually they settled her. Usually the rhythm of them slowed her heartbeat and softened the edges of whatever was bothering her.
Tonight they just sat there. Words without weight. Sounds without shape.
She finished. Went through the motions. Ruku, sujud, the quiet murmur of tasbih against the rug. Her forehead pressed to the carpet, and she stayed there longer than she needed to, forehead against the weave, the fabric cool.
She didn't ask for forgiveness. She hadn't asked for forgiveness in weeks. Somewhere along the way, she'd stopped believing she deserved to.
When she sat up, Omar was standing in the doorway.
His prayer rug was folded under his arm. He'd finished already, or he hadn't started. She couldn't tell which.
"You okay?" he asked.
"No." She folded her own rug, slowly, squaring the edges. "But I'm something."
"What's something?"
She stood. Dusted off her knees. Crossed to the bed and sat on the edge of it.
"I don't know." She looked up at him. "I called my parents. You called yours. We're getting married. That's—that's the plan. That's the thing we said we'd do."
"You're spiraling."
"I'm not spiraling. I'm—" She gestured vaguely at her own head. "I'm just trying to find the floor."
Omar set his rug down. He sat beside her. Not touching, but close enough that she could feel the warmth coming off him in waves.
"The floor is here," he said. "You're sitting on it."
"That's the mattress."
"Same thing."
She laughed. It came out wrong—too sharp, too high. But it was a laugh.
He looked at her. Calm. Steady. She wanted to hate how calm he was. She wanted to hate how he could sit there with his hands folded and his face open like none of this was splitting him open from the inside. But she couldn't. Because she knew what it cost him. She'd seen his hand shake after the call to his father.
"Tomorrow," she said. "Your parents call mine."
"Tomorrow," he repeated. "Or the day after. Whenever they decide to."
"And then what?"
"And then we meet. Families. We sit in a room and we talk."
"And we lie."
Omar didn't flinch. "We tell them we want to get married. That's not a lie."
"Missing information is still lying."
"I know." He said it quietly. Without excuse. "But you already knew that. You came up with the plan."
She leaned back. Dropped her head against the wall. The plaster was cool against her skull.
"I came up with the plan because I was scared," she said. "I'm still scared. That doesn't mean the plan is good. It means I'm desperate."
"You're not desperate."
"I'm pregnant, unmarried, and living in a rented apartment in a city where I'm supposed to be a college student. Desperate is exactly what I am."
Omar turned. He caught her chin with two fingers, gentle, and turned her face toward him.
"Look at me."
She looked.
"You're not doing this alone." His voice didn't rise. Didn't shake. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. And whether you call yourself desperate or not—the plan works. It's the best option we have."
"Best of bad options."
"Sometimes that's what you have to work with."
She pulled her chin free. But she didn't look away.
"Can I stay here tonight?" he asked.
She blinked.
"You just—" She gestured vaguely at the bed.
"I know." He didn't smirk. Didn't look smug. "I mean actually stay. Sleep next to you. No touching. Just—here."
She thought about it. The apartment was small. The couch was terrible. The floor was worse. And some quiet, stubborn part of her didn't want him to leave.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay." She stood. Pulled a t-shirt from her bag. Pulled sweatpants from the dresser. "But you sleep on the outside. I need the wall."
"Why?"
"Because I've been dreaming about falling."
He didn't ask what she meant. Just nodded, and when she came back from the bathroom in her pajamas, he was already on the bed. On his back. On top of the covers. Hands folded on his stomach like a corpse.
She climbed over him. Settled against the wall. Facing away.
For a while, neither of them spoke. The city hummed outside. Somewhere down the street, a car alarm went off, then stopped. The room was dark, and the sheets still smelled like earlier, and Layla pressed her face into her pillow and tried to name what she was feeling.
It wasn't shame. Not anymore. That had burned off hours ago.
It wasn't fear either. Fear she knew. Fear was a constant companion, sitting on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. This was something else.
It was the opposite of fear. It was the feeling of standing at the edge of a cliff and stepping forward anyway.
"Omar?"
"Mm."
"Are you scared?"
A pause.
"Yes."
"What are you scared of?"
She heard him shift. Felt the mattress move under his weight.
"Of turning into my father," he said. "Word for word."
Layla turned. Faced him in the dark. She couldn't see his expression clearly, just the shape of him against the grey.
"What do you mean?"
He was quiet for a long time. Long enough that she thought he wasn't going to answer.
"He's a good man," Omar said finally. "But he's spent his whole life doing the right thing because he was afraid. Afraid of what people would say. Afraid of what God would do. Afraid of his own shadow." A breath. "I don't want that. I don't want to be a person who does good out of fear."
"What do you want to do good out of?"
"I don't know." He exhaled. "Love, I think. Maybe that's what people mean when they say faith."
She reached out. Found his hand in the dark. Her fingers slid between his.
"I think that's the first honest thing you've said all night," she said.
"Was that a compliment?"
"I don't know. Maybe." She squeezed his hand. "Go to sleep."
He didn't let go of her hand. She didn't pull away.
Layla woke to sunlight.
Not the kind she remembered from childhood—thin and watery, filtered through Wisconsin pines. This was different. Brighter. Heavier. It poured through the gaps in the curtains and painted the room in gold, and for a moment she didn't remember where she was.
Then the weight on her hand reminded her.
She looked down. Her fingers were still tangled with Omar's. He was asleep, mouth slightly open, face relaxed in a way she'd never seen before. The tight line between his brows was gone. The careful composure he wore like armor had slipped off in the night.
He looked younger. Softer.
She watched him breathe for a minute. Two. Then she pulled her hand free, carefully, and got out of bed.
The apartment smelled like stale air and cold manakish. She opened a window. The desert morning rushed in—hot already, dry, the sky the color of laundry detergent.
She made tea. She didn't wake him.
Two hours later, they were both dressed. Both with phones in hand. Both waiting.
His parents had called at seven. Her parents had called at eight. They were coming. Not to Riyadh—the Haddads weren't going to fly across the world tomorrow. But the Khalils had agreed to come to Wisconsin. To meet. To talk.
"They want to meet you," Omar said. He was sitting at the tiny table, a cold cup of tea in front of him. "My mother said she remembers you from when you were small. She said you used to pull her hijab off at every dinner."
"I did not."
"You did. She has pictures."
Layla covered her face with both hands.
"She wants to see those pictures," Omar continued. "She said she's bringing them."
"Great." Layla dropped her hands. "So my future mother-in-law is going to show me photos of myself as a toddler committing assault."
"She said it with love."
"Everyone says everything with love."
He smiled. Small, but real. Then he looked at his phone and the smile faded.
"They're coming Thursday," he said. "Both families. At my aunt's house. My parents fly in Wednesday night."
"This Thursday."
"This Thursday."
She sat down across from him. Wrapped her hands around her own tea.
"We have four days," she said.
"Four days."
"To figure out exactly how we're going to do this."
"We already know how we're going to do this." He met her eyes. "We go in. We say we want to get married. They ask questions. We answer them. They say yes or no. Then we plan the nikah."
"And the baby?"
"Not a word."
The room felt very quiet. Layla thought about her mother. About the soft, trusting way she'd said I love you, habibti on the phone. About everything she was about to keep from her.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay."
She stood. Walked to the sink. Dumped her tea down the drain and watched it swirl.
"Tuesday," she said over her shoulder. "Tuesday we tell them we invited your parents. Wednesday we tell them we invited you."
"There's no 'we' in that. Your parents invited them. We're just the children."
"Fine. Your parents call mine. Mine call yours. We stare at our phones and pretend we don't know exactly what's happening."
"That's the most accurate description of Arab family diplomacy I've ever heard."
She turned. He was standing now, leaning against the counter, watching her. The morning light caught the side of his face, outlining the sharp edge of his jaw.
"Four days," she said again.
"Four days." He stepped closer. Stopped maybe a foot away. "You're not going to run, are you?"
"Run where?"
"Anywhere. Away. From this."
She looked at him. At the tired eyes, the steady hands, the way he still looked at her like she was something worth staying for.
"I thought about it," she admitted. "Last night. When I was washing my face. I thought about getting in my car and driving until I ran out of road."
"What stopped you?"
"You." She said it plainly. "And the baby. And the fact that she—or he—deserves better than a mother who runs."
He didn't move. Didn't reach for her. Just stood there, looking at her, like he was memorizing what she'd just said.
Then he nodded.
"Okay," he said. "Four days."
She nodded back.
Outside, the city went on.
Four days passed the way days pass when you're waiting for something: slowly, and then all at once.
They spent Tuesday debriefing over the phone. Layla's mother called first, breathless with the news that the Khalils had reached out. She'd talked to Omar's mother for an hour, she said. The two of them had cried. Layla sat through the call with a rising headache and a smile in her voice.
Then Wednesday. Omar called Layla from his apartment while she pretended to study. They went over the plan again. And again. And again. By the end, the words felt smooth and worn, like stones in a pocket.
And then it was Thursday.
The meeting was at Omar's aunt's house—a sprawling two-story villa on the outskirts of the city, the kind of place with a courtyard and a fountain that had probably never run. Layla dressed with shaking hands. Long sleeve, dark green. A skirt that covered everything. Her hijab pinned tighter than usual.
She met Omar at the gate. He was standing by the car, wearing a white thobe, beard freshly trimmed.
"You look—" he started.
"Don't."
"I was going to say nice."
"Nice is worse than beautiful." She smoothed her skirt. "Let's go. If we're late, my father will notice."
They walked up the path together. Not touching. Not close. Careful. The way they'd learned to be in public.
Inside, the courtyard was already full.
Her parents sat on one side of the diwan. His parents on the other. Tea glasses and dates and a tray of baklava that no one had touched. The air was thick with cardamom and perfume and something else. Something taut.
Omar's mother saw him first. She stood. Crossed the room. Took Layla's face in her hands and studied her like she was looking for a lost child in a crowd.
"You've grown," she said softly. Then, louder, to Layla's mother: "Look at her. Look how she's grown."
Layla's mother stood. She crossed the room. She didn't take Layla's face. She took both of Omar's hands in hers and held them. Squeezed them.
Her eyes were wet.
"Baba," Layla said. "Mama. We need to talk to you."
Layla's father stood up. Slow. He looked at Omar for a long moment. Then he looked at Layla. Then he looked at the empty spot on the diwan beside his wife.
"Sit down," he said. "Both of you."
They sat.
Layla's father didn't return to his seat. He stood with his hands folded behind his back. A posture she recognized. The posture he took when everything needed to be quiet.
"So," he said. "You two have found each other."
Omar answered. "Yes, Baba."
"And you want to get married."
Another pause. "Yes."
Her father's jaw tightened. He looked at Layla's mother. She gave a tiny nod.
"Then we will arrange it," he said. "Thursday. The nikah. Abu Omar and I will sign the papers. The imam will come here."
Layla's breath caught.
"Thursday," she repeated.
"This Thursday," her father said. "We waste no more time."
Omar's father cleared his throat. "This Thursday is—that's the last day before the new month. It's a good day. Blessed."
"So we agree." Layla's father turned to the men. "We arrange the nikah for Thursday. Immediate. Then the walima after Ramadan—something proper. Something our families deserve."
Layla's mother leaned forward. Looked at Layla. "Something small," she said quietly. "The nikah here. Just family."
Layla's hands were cold. She tucked them under her thighs so no one would see them shake.
"Yes," she said. "Small is better."
Her father was still standing. He looked at her in a way she'd never seen before. Not angry. Not disappointed.
Just—studying her. Like he was trying to read the part of her she'd never shown him.
Then he walked to the middle of the room. He held out his hand to Omar.
"Your hand on mine," he said. "And my daughter's on yours. The imam will ask you, and you will answer. Simple."
Layla's heart slammed against her ribs.
"Now?" she whispered.
Her father looked at her. A look she couldn't quite name.
"Now," he said. "If you both are ready. The papers will come. The imam will witness. But the words are between you two and Allah. And me."
Layla stood. Her legs didn't feel like hers. She crossed the room. Her mother's hand found her elbow, steadying her. She stopped in front of her father. Held out her hand.
Omar stood on the other side.
Her father looked at both of them. "Is there anything either of you need to say before this?"
The words to lie itched at the back of Layla's throat. She swallowed them.
"No," she said.
Omar's voice, quiet and clear. "No, Baba."
Her father nodded. He placed his hand over both of theirs.
And then he said the thing she was not ready for.
"I would have blessed this anyway. Even if you'd waited. Even if you'd come to me at any time." He looked into her eyes. "I've known for weeks, habibti. I've been waiting for you to stop carrying it alone."
Layla's throat closed. She looked at her mother. Her mother's face was wet.
"Baba—"
"Shh." He squeezed her hand. "The imam is here."
The imam came in. He was older than Layla expected. Grey beard, small glasses, calm eyes. He sat in the middle of the diwan with the marriage contract in front of him.
"Who is the bride?"
Layla's mother answered. "My daughter. Layla Haddad."
"Who is the groom?"
Omar's father answered. "My son. Omar Khalil."
"Does the bride accept?"
Layla's voice came out steady. "I do."
"Does the groom accept?"
Omar's voice matched hers. "I do."
The imam wrote something. Then he looked up.
"The wali."
Layla's father said the words slowly. Precisely. He spoke the marriage into being with the same calm he used to fix kitchen shelves. Layla watched his mouth form every syllable.
When it was done, he looked up at Omar.
"You will take care of her."
"I will."
"Not with money. Not with a house. With yourself."
"I will."
Her father held the look between them a moment longer than necessary. Then he turned to Layla's mother.
He unrolled a marriage contract and handed Layla the pen.
Layla signed.
Her hand didn't shake. Her name came out clean. Then Omar signed. Then the witnesses. Then it was over.
The room went quiet. Layla looked down at the contract. Her name next to his, in black ink. Legally, religiously—done.
But this was not the end. This was the beginning of the lie.
Two months later, the lie had become a life.
Omar's apartment was on the third floor of a building near the university. The bedroom was small and the kitchen was smaller, but Layla had made it work. She'd hung curtains. She'd bought a prayer rug big enough for two. She'd lined the shelves with mismatched dishes she'd found at a secondhand store.
On the wall by the door hung a printed photograph of her father. He'd taken it the day of the nikah—right after signing—and emailed it to her phone before she could ask.
He'd signed the contract that day over a video call from Wisconsin, his signature witnessed by an uncle, while she and Omar sat side by side in the aunt's diwan in Riyadh. They'd said their vows into a phone. From a continent away.
Her father had told her he'd sign anything she asked him to sign. Then his image had frozen and gone dark. Then the connection had dropped.
She'd gone into the bathroom and cried for twenty minutes.
Now she stood in the kitchen, barefoot on the tile. Her hair was loose—uncovered, the way it could only be in her own home—and her belly was heavy enough to pull her posture forward. She could feel the baby moving. Small flutters, like bubbles rising in water.
The front door opened.
Omar came in with two bags of groceries. He set them on the counter and looked at her.
"What?"
"You're smiling," he said.
"Am I?"
"You are."
She looked down at the counter. Fresh mint leaves. Feta cheese. A paper bag with her favorite bread. She looked back up at him.
"I like being married to you," she said.
He stepped forward. Slid his hands to her waist, then lower, pressing her closer until her belly bumped his stomach.
"You like it because I buy you cheese," he said.
"Among other things."
"Other things." He leaned down. Kissed her cheek. Then her jaw. Then the side of her neck, where her pulse beat steady under warm skin.
"Is it okay to like those things?" she asked against his ear.
His hands tightened on her hips.
"It's halal," he said.
"Say it again."
"It's halal."
She pulled back. Looked at him. The apartment was theirs. The baby was theirs. The marriage was signed, witnessed, blessed.
Legally, she was Layla Khalil.
"Come here," she said.
He came.