Chapter 21: The Boutique on Brady Street
The jogging stroller had a squeaky wheel.
Layla noticed it three blocks from the apartment, a rhythmic chirp-chirp-chirp that kept time with her footsteps. She'd meant to oil it. She'd meant to do a lot of things.
The lakefront path stretched ahead of her, gray and damp from the morning mist. Lake Michigan churned on her left, all steel-gray water and white-capped waves. The sky was that specific Wisconsin October blue—pale, washed out, like someone had left it in the sun too long.
Amira slept.
That was the miracle. That was the thing Layla had learned to be grateful for in the six weeks since Tarek left. Not the big things. Not the milestones or the photo ops or the moments she sent to Arizona in carefully curated snapshots. The small things.
A sleeping baby.
A quiet morning.
A body that could still run.
She pushed the stroller past a group of college kids with earbuds and lattes. Past an old man throwing bread to the seagulls. Past a woman in a hijab who smiled at her—that specific smile, the one that said I see you, sister, and you're doing fine.
Layla smiled back.
The path curved. The wind picked up. Amira stirred, made a sound, settled.
Layla ran faster.
It was the first week of October, and Layla was thriving.
That was the word she used when her mother called. Thriving. As in, we're thriving, Mama. As in, everything is fine. As in, I'm not falling apart, I promise.
It wasn't a lie. Not exactly.
She woke at six every morning. Fed Amira. Changed her. Strapped her into the stroller and ran the lakefront loop—three miles, sometimes four if she felt strong. By the time they got back, the sun was up and Amira was ready for her first nap.
Layla showered. Ate breakfast. Answered emails.
She'd found a remote job two weeks ago—part-time social media management for a boutique in Chicago. The pay was decent. The work was easy. It gave her something to do besides stare at the walls.
The afternoons were hers.
She explored the city like a tourist. Brady Street. The Third Ward. The public market with its cheese stalls and flower vendors and old men playing chess on folding tables. She pushed Amira through farmer's markets and art galleries and coffee shops that smelled like cardamom and burnt sugar.
She bought things.
Not necessities. Not diapers or formula or the endless stream of practical items that consumed her Target runs. Things. Beautiful things. Things that made her feel like a person instead of just a mother.
A candle that smelled like fig and cedar.
A ceramic mug with a hand-painted moon.
A leather journal she hadn't written in yet.
She had money saved from her old job—the one she'd quit before Syria, before Tarek, before everything changed. It sat in her account, untouched, waiting for something. She'd never known what.
Now she knew.
She spent it without guilt.
Brady Street was quiet for a Tuesday afternoon.
The boutique sat between a vintage record shop and a bakery that sold macarons in flavors Layla couldn't pronounce. The windows were large and clean, displaying mannequins in autumn colors—rust and mustard and deep forest green.
Layla parked the stroller by the door and went inside.
The air smelled like cotton candy and lavender. Soft music played from hidden speakers—something acoustic, something sad, something that made her chest ache in a way she couldn't explain.
She wandered the aisles.
Onesies in pastel colors. Tiny socks shaped like animals. Rattles made of organic wood. Blankets so soft they felt like clouds.
She touched everything.
She was halfway through the store when she found them.
The matching outfits.
Camel cardigans. Hers in adult size, Amira's in 0-3 months. Tiny corduroy overalls with brass buttons. And underneath it all, a pumpkin-print onesie that made Layla laugh out loud in the middle of the store.
"What's funny?"
The saleswoman appeared beside her. Young. Maybe twenty. Pink hair and a nose ring and a smile that said she'd seen it all.
"This," Layla said, holding up the onesie. "Just—look at it."
The woman looked. Grinned.
"Oh, that's adorable. Is it for your baby?"
"Yeah." Layla touched her stomach out of habit. Still soft. Still stretched. Still not quite hers. "She's three months old."
"Three months? She's so tiny!"
"She's average, actually."
"I don't know anything about babies." The woman laughed. "I just work here."
Layla laughed too. It felt good. Real.
"I'll take all of it," she said. "The cardigans. The overalls. The onesie."
"And the booties?"
Layla looked. Soft leather booties in cream and tan. Tiny knitted hat with bear ears.
"Those too."
She paid. Walked out with two bags and a receipt she didn't look at. The sun was setting—orange and pink and gold, spilling across the sidewalk like paint.
She felt light.
She felt happy.
She felt like herself.
The apartment was warm when she got back.
She laid everything out on the bed. The cardigans. The overalls. The booties. The hat. The pumpkin onesie, front and center.
She took photos. Adjusted the lighting. Took more photos. Amira lay on the bed beside the clothes, kicking her legs, making sounds that might have been laughter or might have been gas.
"Look at this," Layla said. "Look at what we got."
She took a selfie—herself holding Amira, both of them next to the matching outfits. Then she sent the whole thing to Tarek.
Your girls are ready for autumn.
She set the phone down. Picked Amira up. Bounced her gently.
"Your daddy's going to love these," she said. "He's going to say we're the cutest things he's ever seen."
Amira grabbed her finger. Held on tight.
"Because we are," Layla said. "Obviously."
The phone rang.
She grabbed it without looking. "Hello?"
"Hey."
Tarek's voice was heavy. Tired. Different.
"Hey," she said. "Did you see the photos?"
"I saw them."
"Aren't they cute?"
"They're perfect."
She waited for him to say more. He didn't.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Yeah. Just—" He stopped.
"Tarek?"
"I need to tell you something."
The bottom of her stomach dropped. That phrase. Those words. Nothing good ever followed.
"What?"
"I—" He exhaled. "I'm not going to be able to come back until December."
She went quiet.
The apartment was silent. Amira cooed. The radiator clicked.
"What?"
"End of December. The 22nd. Maybe the 23rd."
"I don't—" She shook her head. "What are you talking about? You're supposed to come next week."
"I know."
"You have a ticket."
"I know."
"So what—"
"They need me here." His voice cracked. "The project. It's bigger than we thought. And my boss—"
"Your boss."
"I can't say no, Layla. Not now. Not when—"
"Not when what?"
"Not when they're paying me what they're paying me. Not when we need the money. Not when—"
"Tarek."
"I'm sorry."
She sat down.
Not on the bed. On the floor. Among the shopping bags and the receipts and the tiny pumpkin onesie that had made her laugh an hour ago.
"You're not coming," she said.
"Not until December."
"That's three months."
"I know."
"Three months."
"I know."
"Tarek, she's going to be six months old by then. She's going to—"
"I know."
"She's going to be a different baby."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Silence.
"I'm sorry," he said again.
She stared at the wall. At the onesie. At the bear hat with its tiny ears. At everything she'd bought for a season he wouldn't see.
"I understand," she said.
"You don't have to understand. You can be mad. You can—"
"I understand."
"Layla—"
"I understand, Tarek." Her voice was steady. Flat. "I get it. You have a job. You have responsibilities. I get it."
"You don't sound like you get it."
"I do."
"You sound like you're about to cry."
"I'm not."
"Layla—"
"I'm not going to cry." She looked at Amira. At her tiny hands. Her tiny feet. Her tiny everything. "I'm going to be fine. We're going to be fine."
"That's not—"
"I have to go."
"Layla, wait—"
"I'll call you later."
She hung up.
She didn't move.
The room was so quiet. So still. The radiator clicked. The refrigerator hummed. Amira made a sound—not crying, just a sound. A question. A where are you?
Layla looked at the onesie. The pumpkin print. The orange and green. The little stem on top.
She'd laughed when she saw it. Actually laughed. Out loud. In the store.
That felt like a hundred years ago.
She picked up Amira.
Held her against her chest. Pressed her face into the soft, dark hair. Breathed in the smell of baby shampoo and milk and warmth.
"Just us, then," she whispered.
Amira squirmed. Settled.
"We'll be okay."
The words hung in the air.
Layla closed her eyes.
And for a moment—just a moment—she let herself feel it. The weight. The disappointment. The anger she wouldn't let herself name.
Then she opened her eyes.
She stood up.
She put Amira in the bassinet.
She picked up the onesie. Folded it. Placed it in the drawer with the other clothes. The cardigans. The overalls. The booties. The hat.
She would save them.
She would save them for December.
She walked to the kitchen. Made tea. Ate a granola bar standing over the sink. Washed the dishes. Wiped the counters. Took out the trash.
Normal things. Ordinary things. Things that said I am still here.
At nine, she put Amira to bed.
At ten, she sat on the couch and stared at her phone.
No messages.
She didn't text him. Didn't call. Didn't send another photo or a joke or a anything.
She just sat there. In the quiet. In the dark. In the life she'd built for herself while waiting for him to come home.
The clock ticked.
The city slept.
And Layla—Layla stayed awake.
The tea went cold in her hands.
Layla didn't notice. She sat on the couch, knees drawn up, staring at the wall where their wedding photo hung. Tarek in his suit. Her in white. Both of them smiling like they'd figured something out.
She set the mug down. Stood up. Walked to the bedroom.
Amira slept with her fists curled. Her breathing was soft and even, a metronome of tiny life. Layla watched her from the doorway and felt nothing.
That was the strange part. Not sadness. Not anger. Just this flat, gray nothing that settled over her like a wet blanket.
She went to bed.
She didn't dream.
Morning arrived with a headache she couldn't shake.
She fed Amira. Changed her. Skipped the run. Skipped the shower. Skipped everything that made her feel like a person.
Instead, she sat on the floor of the living room with Amira on a blanket and watched the light move across the wall. From window to floor to ceiling and back again. Hours passed. She wasn't sure how many.
The pumpkin onesie sat in the drawer with the tags still on.
She didn't look at it.
Her phone buzzed around noon. Tarek. She let it ring.
It buzzed again at three. She turned it face-down on the counter.
At six, she fed Amira. Bathed her. Put her down. Ate a piece of toast standing over the sink. Went back to bed.
The phone buzzed at nine. Then at ten. Then at eleven.
She slept with it in the other room.
Wednesday came. Thursday went.
Layla stopped counting days. She stopped answering texts. She stopped making coffee in the morning and running the stroller down the lakefront path and smiling at strangers on Brady Street.
She sat in the apartment and existed.
Amira didn't know the difference. She ate and slept and grew. Her fingers got longer. Her eyes got bluer. She would never remember these weeks.
Layla would remember.
She'd remember lying on the floor with Amira beside her, staring at the ceiling. She'd remember the weight of her own body, the heaviness of her limbs, the way getting up to make a bottle felt like climbing a mountain. She'd remember the specific silence of the apartment when Tarek was supposed to be there but wasn't.
She'd remember thinking, for the first time, that maybe she didn't need him.
The thought arrived on Friday afternoon.
She was sitting on the couch. Amira was napping. The apartment was clean—she'd cleaned it out of sheer boredom—and the sunlight was hitting the window in that golden afternoon way that made everything look like a memory.
She looked at the wedding photo.
She looked at the empty space beside her.
And she thought: I do everything alone anyway.
The thought was quiet. Not dramatic. Not angry. Just there. Like a fact. Like a stone she'd found in her shoe.
What does he actually do? She ran through the list. He calls. He texts. He sends money. He loves her.
But he's not here.
He's not here when Amira wakes up screaming at 2 AM. He's not here when the diapers run out and Layla has to pack the baby into the car and drive to Walgreens in the rain. He's not here when she hasn't slept in three days and her body aches and her mind is fog and all she wants is someone to hold her and say you're doing great.
He's not here.
She picked up her phone.
She scrolled through his texts. The apologies. The I love yous. The I'm sorries. The I wish I was there.
Wishes.
She set the phone down.
I don't need a man, she thought. Not like this. Not one who's a voice on a phone. Not one who's a face on a screen. Not one who's always leaving.
Amira stirred. Made a sound.
Layla got up. Picked her up. Held her.
"We don't need him," she whispered. "We're fine. We're fine."
But her chest cracked on the second fine.
She ignored that.
Her mother arrived on Saturday.
No call. No warning. Just a knock at the door and Layla opening it to find Ummi standing in the hallway with a covered dish in one hand and a grocery bag in the other.
"You look terrible," her mother said.
"Thanks."
"When did you last eat?"
"I ate."
"When?"
"This morning."
"It's three in the afternoon."
"Then this morning."
Her mother pushed past her. Set the dish on the counter. Set the bag on the floor. Turned around and looked at Layla with that specific look. The one that saw through everything.
"Sit down," she said.
"I don't—"
"Sit. Down."
Layla sat.
Her mother opened the dish—maqluba, layered rice and eggplant and chicken, the smell of it hitting Layla like a wall. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed her mother's cooking.
"Eat," her mother said.
Layla ate.
She ate without tasting. Without thinking. Without anything but the mechanical motion of fork to mouth to fork. Her mother watched her. Didn't speak. Just let her eat.
When Layla finished, her mother took the plate. Washed it. Dried it. Put it back in the cabinet.
Then she sat down across from Layla.
"Tell me," she said.
"Tell you what?"
"What happened."
"Nothing happened."
"Layla."
"Nothing happened, Mama. He just—he's not coming. Not until December."
Her mother nodded slowly.
"And you've been ignoring his calls."
Layla didn't answer.
"He called me," her mother said. "Three days ago. He said you're not answering."
"So?"
"So he's worried. He's calling me because he doesn't know what to do. He said he's called twenty times. He said he's texted every day."
Layla looked away.
"I don't need him," she said.
Her mother was quiet.
"I don't. I do everything alone anyway. I take care of Amira. I take care of the apartment. I take care of myself. What does he do? He calls. He says sorry. He promises things he can't deliver."
"Layla—"
"I don't need a man who's not here. I don't need a husband who's a voice on a phone. I'm fine. I'm fine alone."
"You're not fine."
"I am."
"You're sitting on the couch with unwashed hair, wearing the same clothes you wore yesterday, and you haven't run in a week. You're not fine."
Layla's eyes burned. She blinked it away.
"I'm fine."
Her mother leaned forward. Took her hand.
"Listen to me," she said. "Tarek loves you."
"I know."
"No. Listen." Her voice was firm. Not unkind. Just firm. "Tarek loves you. He cannot control that he is not near you. He cannot control his job. He cannot control the distance. But he loves you. That is a fact. That is not something you can ignore or wish away or decide doesn't matter."
"He should be here."
"He should. And he wants to be. He wants it more than anything." Her mother squeezed her hand. "Do you think this is easy for him? Do you think he likes being in Arizona while you're here? Do you think he likes missing everything?"
"I don't know."
"He hates it. He told me. He cried on the phone. A grown man crying to his mother-in-law. Do you understand what that means?"
Layla shook her head.
"It means he loves you. It means he's scared and alone and trying his best and failing and trying again. It means he's human." Her mother's eyes softened. "Just like you."
Layla's throat closed.
"I'm tired," she whispered.
"I know."
"I'm so tired."
"I know."
"I don't want to be angry at him. But I am. I'm angry all the time. And then I feel guilty. And then I'm more angry."
"That's normal."
"It doesn't feel normal."
"Nothing about this is normal." Her mother let go of her hand. Sat back. "But you're not alone. You have me. You have your sisters. You have this baby."
"And Tarek?"
"Tarek is still your husband. Whether he's here or not."
Layla was quiet.
"You can be angry," her mother said. "You can be hurt. You can be sad. But don't let it turn into something that eats you from inside. Don't let it become a wall."
"A wall."
"Between you and him. Between you and everyone." Her mother gestured at the apartment. "I've seen you. This week. You've been disappearing. Into yourself. Into this apartment. Into the silence."
Layla looked at the floor.
"He called me every day," she said. "I didn't answer."
"I know."
"I couldn't."
"I know."
"Every time he calls, I think—" She stopped.
"You think what?"
"I think he's going to say something else. Something worse. Something that makes it hurt more."
Her mother nodded.
"But he's still your husband," she said. "And you still love him."
Layla didn't answer.
"You still love him," her mother repeated.
"Yes."
"Then answer the phone."
Monday morning.
Layla woke at six. The lakefront path waited. The sun was somewhere behind the clouds. The apartment was quiet.
She fed Amira. Changed her. Made coffee. Drank it.
Her phone rang.
She looked at the screen.
TAREK.
She took a breath.
"Hello?"
"Layla." His voice was rough. Raw. "Thank God."
"I'm here."
"I've been trying to reach you. I've been—" He stopped. Swallowed.
"I know."
"Are you okay?"
"I'm okay."
"Layla—"
"I'm okay, Tarek."
Silence.
"Look," he said. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know I should be there. I know I'm—"
"Tarek."
"—failing. I know I'm failing. But I'm—"
"Tarek."
"I love you. I love you and I love Amira and I'm trying. I'm trying so hard and it's not—"
"Tarek. Stop."
He stopped.
She could hear him breathing. Fast. Shallow. Wrong.
"Tarek, what's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You're breathing like you ran a marathon."
"I'm fine."
"You don't sound fine."
"I'm fine."
"Tarek."
"Layla, I'm fine."
She closed her eyes.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"Home."
"Where."
"Tempe."
"Tarek."
"Look, it's nothing. It's really nothing. I just—there was a thing. A small thing. I'm okay."
"A thing."
"A car thing."
She went cold.
"A car thing."
"It was a fender bender. Nothing happened. I'm fine."
"Tarek."
"I'm fine."
"You're in the hospital."
Silence.
"Tarek. Are you in the hospital?"
"It's not a big deal."
"Tarek."
"I'm fine. I'm fine. It was a—a thing. There was an intersection. Some guy ran a red light. I'm fine."
"You're in the hospital."
"They're keeping me overnight. For observation. It's nothing."
"The other day."
"What?"
"You said—you said on Tuesday you were tired. You said you were going to sleep. You said—"
"I don't remember."
"Tarek. The accident. When was it?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Tarek."
"Friday."
Friday. The day she'd thought I don't need a man. The day she'd ignored his calls and stared at the wall and decided she could do this alone.
"Three days ago."
"Yeah."
"Three days ago. And you're still in the hospital."
"I'm fine."
"Tarek—"
"They're just being careful. It's protocol. I'm fine."
"Let me talk to a doctor."
"What?"
"Let me talk to a doctor. A nurse. Someone."
"Layla—"
"Tarek. Please."
Silence.
Then, muffled, like he'd covered the phone with his hand.
"Give me a minute."
She heard voices. His. Someone else's. The sound of machines beeping. The sound of something that might have been a curtain being pulled back.
He came back.
"Layla."
"What did they say."
"They said I'm fine."
"What else."
"Layla—"
"What. Else."
Another silence. Longer this time.
"Broken ribs. Concussion. Some internal stuff." He exhaled. "They're keeping me for a few more days."
"A few more days."
"Maybe a week."
"A week."
"I'm fine. I'm going to be fine. It's—"
She hung up.
She didn't think. She didn't plan. She opened her laptop. She pulled up a website. She typed in the dates. She hit search.
Milwaukee to Phoenix. One-way. Two seats—her and Amira. Tuesday morning.
She clicked purchase.
She didn't look at the price.
She closed the laptop.
She stood up.
She walked to the bedroom. Picked up Amira from the bassinet. Held her against her chest.
The pumpkin onesie sat in the drawer, tags still on.
She didn't think about that. She didn't think about anything. She just stood there, holding her baby, and felt something she hadn't felt in weeks.
Not sadness. Not anger.
Determination.
"We're going to see him," she said. "Your daddy. We're going to see him."
Amira made a sound.
"Yes," Layla said. "Right now."