Chapter 20: The Hour Before the Uber
The door clicked shut.
The sound was small. Ordinary. The kind of sound a door makes a thousand times a day in a thousand different apartments. But Layla stood there, barefoot on the cold linoleum, and felt it hit her chest like a fist.
She didn't move.
The Uber had pulled away. She'd heard the engine fade, the tires on wet pavement, the silence that followed. Through the window, she'd watched the taillights shrink to nothing. Red dots swallowed by the gray November morning.
He was gone.
The apartment was still. The radiator clicked. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere down the hall, a neighbor's dog barked once and went quiet.
Layla looked at the door. Then at her hands. Then at the empty space where his duffel bag had been.
She should move. She should check on Amira. She should eat something. She should—
She sat down.
Right there. On the floor. Back against the door. Knees pulled to her chest. The linoleum cold beneath her, the wallpaper peeling above her, the fluorescent light buzzing its eternal buzz.
She didn't cry. That was the strange part. She felt like she should. Her chest was tight, her throat was thick, her eyes burned with the pressure of unshed tears. But nothing came.
Just this. The stillness. The quiet. The weight of being alone.
Amira's cry cut through it.
Not loud. Not yet. Just a whimper. A small, searching sound. The kind that said I'm here and I'm not sure if anyone else is.
Layla stood up.
Her body protested—hips aching, stitches pulling, breasts heavy and leaking through the nursing pads. But she stood. She walked. She opened the bedroom door.
Amira was in the bassinet beside the bed. Her face was scrunched, her tiny fists waving, her legs kicking against the swaddle.
"I'm here," Layla said.
She picked her up. Held her against her chest. The baby's warmth seeped through Layla's hoodie, and something in her chest loosened.
"I'm here," she said again.
Amira latched on like she'd been waiting her whole life. Which, in a way, she had. Three weeks of life and every feeding was an emergency, every hunger a crisis.
Layla sat on the bed. Leaned against the headboard. Let the baby nurse.
The room was a disaster.
Dirty laundry piled in the corner. Empty water bottles on the nightstand. A half-eaten granola bar on the floor. The sheets needed changing. The trash needed taking out. The dishes in the sink had been there since yesterday.
Tarek had meant to do them. He'd promised. But then Amira had a blowout, and then the pediatrician called, and then it was time to pack, and then—
She looked at the clock. 9:47 AM.
His flight left at noon. He'd be at the airport by now. Going through security. Taking off his shoes. Putting his belt in the bin. Standing in line at the gate with his phone in his hand.
She wondered if he was crying.
She wondered if he was okay.
She wondered if she was okay.
Amira finished nursing. Layla burped her. Changed her. Swaddled her. Put her back in the bassinet.
And then she stood in the middle of the room and didn't know what to do.
The apartment was too big. That was the thing. Nine hundred square feet, one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen the size of a closet and a living room that doubled as everything else. But it felt enormous now. Every corner echoed. Every silence stretched.
She walked to the living room. Sat on the couch. Picked up her phone.
No messages.
She opened Tarek's contact. Her thumb hovered over the call button. Then she locked the phone and set it down.
Too soon. He was probably still in the car. Or at the gate. Or—
She picked up the phone again.
She typed: You okay?
She deleted it.
She typed: I miss you already.
She deleted it.
She typed: Amira says hi.
She sent it.
Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.
Then: Tell her I love her.
Layla stared at the screen. Her eyes burned. She typed: She knows.
Then: I love you too.
Then: I know.
She set the phone down. Looked at the ceiling. Breathed.
The apartment was quiet.
The baby was asleep.
She was alone.
And for the first time since the hospital, she didn't know what came next.
The day passed in fragments.
She fed Amira. Changed her. Rocked her. Put her down. Picked her up. Fed her again. Changed her again. Rocked her again. The rhythm was mechanical now, automatic. Her body knew what to do even when her mind was somewhere else.
Somewhere in Arizona.
Somewhere on a plane.
Somewhere she couldn't follow.
At noon, she ate a granola bar standing over the sink. At two, she made coffee and forgot to drink it. At four, she put Amira in the stroller and walked to the mailbox.
The air was cold. Sharp. It smelled like dead leaves and car exhaust and something baking from the bakery down the street. She checked the mail—bills, junk, a coupon for diapers—and walked back inside.
The apartment was exactly as she'd left it.
Of course it was.
She didn't know what she'd expected.
At six, her phone rang.
She grabbed it before the first ring finished.
"Hello?"
"Hey." Tarek's voice was hoarse. Tired. Familiar. "I'm here."
"Where's here?"
"Phoenix. Well, Tempe. My apartment."
"Already?"
"Landed an hour ago."
"How was the flight?"
"Long."
"How's Amira?"
"She's good. Sleeping. She just ate."
"Good. That's good."
Silence.
"I miss you," he said.
"I miss you too."
"I keep looking at my phone. Waiting for you to text."
"You just left."
"I know."
"You're supposed to be unpacking."
"I know."
"Tarek."
"What?"
"Go unpack."
"Okay."
He didn't hang up.
"Tarek?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you crying?"
"No."
"Liar."
"I'm not crying. I'm just—" He stopped. She heard him breathe. "I'm just standing in my apartment. And it's empty. And I keep thinking about you in the bed with Amira and I'm not there."
"You'll be back in two weeks."
"I know."
"Two weeks is nothing."
"Two weeks is forever."
"You said that to me."
"I know."
She smiled. It hurt.
"Go unpack," she said. "Call me tonight."
"I will."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
He hung up.
She stared at the phone. Then at Amira. Then at the window.
The sun was setting. Orange and pink and gray. The sky looked like a bruise healing.
She made dinner. Ate it. Washed the dishes. Took out the trash. Folded laundry. Bathed Amira. Fed her. Put her down.
Then she sat on the couch and watched TV.
She didn't remember what she watched. Some show. Some reality thing. People arguing about nothing. She scrolled her phone, checked Instagram, checked the news, checked her messages. Tarek hadn't texted again.
She went to bed at ten.
Amira woke at midnight.
She fed her.
Amira woke at two.
She changed her.
Amira woke at four.
She rocked her.
Amira woke at six.
She cried.
Not Amira. Layla.
She sat in the dark of the bedroom, Amira in her arms, and cried. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just tears running down her cheeks, dripping onto the baby's swaddle, soaking into the sheets. Her chest heaved. Her throat ached. Her whole body shook with the effort of keeping quiet.
She didn't want to wake Amira any more than she had to.
She didn't want to wake the neighbors.
She didn't want to wake—
There was no one else to wake.
Tarek was in Arizona. Her mother was thirty minutes away. Her sisters were scattered across the country. Her father was asleep in his own bed in his own house with his own wife.
She was alone.
She held Amira closer. The baby slept on, oblivious. Her tiny chest rose and fell. Her tiny lips made tiny sounds. Her tiny hands curled against Layla's shirt.
"You," Layla whispered, "are the only reason I'm still okay."
Amira didn't answer.
But she didn't need to.
The first week was a blur.
Feedings and changings and naps and laundry. Day bled into night bled into day. Layla stopped keeping track. She stopped looking at the clock. She stopped counting the hours until Tarek's next call.
She just moved.
The second week was harder.
The adrenaline was gone. The novelty was gone. The sheer survival mode of the first week had faded, and what was left was the quiet, grinding reality of doing this alone.
She was tired.
Not the kind of tired that a nap could fix. Not the kind of tired she'd felt in college after pulling all-nighters. This was deeper. Cellular. A bone-deep exhaustion that no amount of sleep could touch.
She was lonely.
Not the kind of lonely that a phone call could fix. Not the kind she'd felt before she met Tarek. This was the specific loneliness of being in a crowded room and still feeling invisible. Of having a baby in your arms and still feeling empty. Of knowing that the person you loved most in the world was a thousand miles away and there was nothing you could do about it.
She was scared.
Not the kind of scared she'd felt in the hospital. Not the kind she'd felt when she took the pregnancy test. This was different. This was the slow, creeping fear that she wasn't enough. That she couldn't do this. That she would fail.
She called her mother.
"Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine."
"You sound tired."
"I'm fine."
"Layla."
"Mama."
The word came out broken.
Her mother was quiet for a moment.
"Do you want me to come over?"
"No."
"Do you want me to stay on the phone?"
"Please."
So her mother stayed on the phone.
She talked about nothing. About the weather. About her garden. About the new recipe she'd tried and how it didn't quite work. About her sisters. About her father. About the neighbor's cat that kept wandering into their yard.
Layla listened.
She didn't talk much. She just held the phone to her ear and breathed. Amira slept on her chest. The radiator clicked. The refrigerator hummed.
And for a little while, Layla felt less alone.
Tarek called every night.
They talked about nothing. About the weather. About his job. About the new guy he'd hired who was always late. About her day. About Amira's day. About the show they were both watching but never at the same time.
"How is she?" he asked.
"She's good."
"Is she sleeping?"
"Sometimes."
"Are you sleeping?"
"Sometimes."
"Layla."
"I'm okay."
"You don't sound okay."
"I'm tired."
"I know."
Silence.
"I wish I was there."
"I know."
"I keep thinking—"
"Tarek."
"What?"
"Stop."
"Stop what?"
"Thinking. I can hear you thinking."
He laughed. It was hollow.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"You didn't do anything."
"Maybe I did."
"What are you talking about?"
"Maybe if I hadn't—" He stopped. Started again. "Maybe if I'd been more careful. In Syria. Maybe if we'd—"
"Tarek."
"The condoms. The pull-out. Everything. We thought we were being careful. We thought—"
"We were careful."
"We weren't careful enough."
"You don't know that."
"I do." His voice cracked. "One night. One stupid night. And now everything's different. We never got to just be us. We never got a single month of just being married. It was always—"
"Tarek."
"Doctors and tests and now—"
"Tarek."
"I should have done better."
"You did everything right."
"It wasn't enough."
"It was enough."
"Was it?"
She closed her eyes.
"Amira is the best thing that ever happened to me," she said.
He was quiet.
"I know you're scared. I know you think you failed. But you didn't." She held the phone tighter. "I would choose this. All of it. The nights. The diapers. The doctors. The distance. I would choose you. I would choose her. I would choose this exact life exactly as it is."
"Even now? Even alone?"
"Even now."
"Even when it's hard?"
"Especially when it's hard."
A long pause. Then, softly—
"I love you."
"I love you too."
She hung up.
She looked at Amira, asleep in the bassinet. She looked at the room. The dim light. The moonlight through the window. The single frame on the wall—their wedding photo. Tarek in his suit, Layla in white, both of them too young and too happy to know what was coming.
She looked at the photo for a long time.
Then she went to sleep.
Two weeks passed like syrup.
Slow. Thick. Sticky. Every day felt like a month. Every night felt like a year. And then—
Tarek came home.
Not home. Not really. But here. For a week. A whole week. Seven days of him.
She saw the car pull up from the living room window. She saw him get out. She saw him run to the building. She saw him take the stairs three at a time.
She opened the door before he knocked.
He stopped.
She was holding Amira.
He looked at her. Then at the baby. Then at her.
"I'm here," he said.
"I know."
He stepped inside. Closed the door. Wrapped his arms around her. Amira squished between them, protesting with a small squawk.
"Missed you," he whispered into her hair.
"Missed you too."
"How's my girl?"
"Which one?"
He pulled back. Looked at Amira. Touched her cheek.
"Both of you."
"Tired."
"I know."
"Stinky."
"That's the baby, right?"
"Sure."
He laughed. She laughed. Amira made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been gas.
"Okay," he said. "I'm taking her."
"You just got here."
"I've been waiting three weeks to hold her."
"You held her this morning."
"Not the same."
He took Amira from Layla's arms. Held her against his chest. Buried his face in her hair.
"Hey, baby," he murmured. "Daddy's here."
Amira's blue eyes opened. Unfocused. Wandering. But looking at him.
"She remembers me," he said.
"She's three weeks old."
"She remembers."
"Okay."
"She definitely remembers."
Layla watched him. His exhaustion. His joy. His fear. All mixed up in his face like weather.
"You okay?" she asked.
He looked at her.
"No."
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know." He shook his head. "I keep thinking about it. About leaving. About going back. About what if I can't—"
"Can't what?"
"Can't be there. Like, actually there. What if I miss everything? She's going to grow up and I'm going to be on a phone. She's going to take her first steps and I'm going to be in Arizona. She's going to say her first word and I'll hear it through a screen."
Layla stepped closer. Put her hand on his face.
"You're going to be there," she said.
"Am I?"
"You're here now."
"For a week."
"And then you'll come back."
"Eventually."
"And eventually is sooner than you think."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know you."
She kissed him. Soft. Tender. His lips were dry, his breath was warm, his hands were steady.
"I made a mistake," he whispered.
"What mistake?"
"In Syria." He pulled back. Looked at her. "That night. The one where—"
"Tarek."
"No, listen." His voice was hard. Urgent. "I was careless. I was so focused on wanting you that I didn't think about anything else. The condoms were—" He shook his head. "I should have been more careful. I should have been—"
"You were perfect."
"I wasn't."
"You were." She took his hand. Held it between hers. "We were careful. We did everything right. Sometimes it just happens. Sometimes—"
"But it happened to us."
"It did."
"And now we're—"
"Now we're parents. To the most beautiful baby in the world." She smiled. "That's not a tragedy, Tarek. That's a miracle."
He stared at her.
"How are you so calm?"
"I'm not."
"You seem calm."
"I cried for three days straight. You just didn't see it."
"Oh, Layla—"
"I'm fine. I'm here. I'm with you." She touched Amira's head. "We're together."
He pulled her close. Held her tight. Amira between them, squirming, but not crying. Just letting herself be held.
"I'm going to do better," he said.
"You're already perfect."
"I'm going to do better anyway."
"Okay."
"I'm going to be there. Somehow. I'm going to figure it out."
"I know."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"I love you."
"I love you too."
The week went too fast.
That was the cruelest part. Two weeks of waiting, of counting, of marking off days on the calendar. And then seven days that passed like seven hours. Seven days of waking up next to him. Of shared feedings and shared diapers and shared exhaustion. Of takeout from Culver's and late-night talks and quiet moments that felt like they'd last forever.
And then it was the night before he left again.
They sat on the couch. Amira was asleep in her bassinet in the bedroom. The TV was off. The apartment was quiet.
"I don't want to go," he said.
"I know."
"I hate this."
"I know."
"What if I—" He stopped.
"What?"
"What if I moved back here? What if I found a job? What if we—"
"Tarek."
"What if we didn't have to do this?"
"You have a job."
"I could get another one."
"In Wisconsin?"
"Why not?"
"Because you have a career. Because you have responsibilities. Because—"
"Screw responsibilities."
"Tarek."
"I mean it. What's the point of any of it if I'm not with you?"
She took his hand.
"We're doing this because we have to," she said. "Not because we want to. And it's temporary."
"It doesn't feel temporary."
"It will be."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know you. And I know us. And I know this is not forever."
He looked at her. His eyes were wet.
"You're too good for me," he said.
"I know."
He laughed. She laughed.
"I'm serious," he said.
"So am I."
He pulled her close. Kissed her. Held her.
"I'm going to fix this," he said. "I'm going to figure out a way to be here more. I'm going to—"
"Just come back," she said. "When you can. As often as you can. That's all I need."
"That's not enough."
"It's enough for now."
"Layla—"
"Tarek." She touched his face. "Stop. Stop trying to solve everything tonight. Just be here. With me. For the next twelve hours. That's all I want."
He nodded.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
They sat there. Holding each other. The clock ticked. The radiator clicked. The city outside slept.
And for twelve hours, they didn't think about tomorrow.
The next morning was gray.
Not rainy. Not sunny. Just gray. Flat. The kind of sky that made everything look like a photograph left out too long.
Layla made coffee. Tarek packed. Amira slept. The duffel bag sat by the door like it had three weeks ago.
"I hate this bag," Layla said.
"What?"
"I hate this bag. It's always packed. It's always leaving."
"It's just a bag."
"It's not just a bag."
"Layla—"
"I know. I'm being dramatic."
"A little."
"A lot."
He zipped it. Stood up. Looked at her.
"Come here," he said.
She went.
He pulled her into his arms. Held her tight. Buried his face in her hair.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"Everything." His voice cracked. "For getting you pregnant in Syria. For not being more careful. For leaving you here alone. For not giving you the wedding you deserved. For not giving you a single normal month of being married. For—"
"Tarek."
"For missing everything. For being gone when you need me. For—"
"Tarek."
He stopped.
She cupped his face. Forced him to look at her.
"Amira is the best thing that ever happened to me," she said. "I would choose this exact life again. Every time. Without hesitation."
He tried to look away. She didn't let him.
"You hear me?"
"Yes."
"Say it back."
"Layla—"
"Say it back."
He swallowed. Nodded.
"You're the best thing that ever happened to me," he said.
"Good."
"But I still—"
"I know. I know." She kissed him. Soft. Gentle. "We'll see each other soon. Two weeks. That's nothing."
"It's fourteen days."
"Exactly. Nothing."
He laughed. She laughed. The baby monitor crackled.
"I want to hold her one more time," he said.
"Go."
He went to the bedroom. Lifted Amira from the bassinet. Held her against his chest.
Layla followed. Stood in the doorway. Watched.
"Hey, baby," he whispered. "Daddy's going away again. But I'll be back. I promise."
Amira stirred. Opened her eyes. Looked at him.
"You're going to be okay," he said. "Your mom's amazing. She's going to take care of you. And I'm going to be here as much as I can."
His voice broke.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry I can't be here all the time. I'm sorry I can't watch you grow up every day. I'm sorry I'm such a mess."
He kissed her forehead. Her cheek. Her tiny hand.
"I'm going to be the father you deserve," he said. "I promise. I'm going to figure this out. I'm going to—"
The Uber notification pinged.
He closed his eyes.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
He set Amira down. Gently. Carefully. Like she was made of glass. Like she was made of gold.
He turned to Layla.
"Come here," he said.
She went.
They kissed. Soft at first. Then deeper. His hands fisted the back of her shirt. Her fingers curled into his hair. And for a moment—just a moment—it was like Syria. Like those nights. Like before everything changed.
Then Amira cried.
"Go," Layla said.
"I don't want to."
"Go."
"I hate this."
"I know."
He pulled away. Looked at her. Looked at Amira. Looked at the apartment. Looked at everything he was leaving behind.
"I love you," he said.
"I love you too."
He picked up his bag. Walked to the door.
He opened it.
He paused.
He didn't look back.
He walked out.
The door clicked shut.