Chapter 3: Mama's Arms and the Long Talk
The hallway held them for a long time.
Mama's arms were warm and solid, and she smelled like the lavender soap she'd used for as long as Layla could remember, the same soap that lingered on every towel in the house, the same soap that meant home. Layla pressed her face into her mother's shoulder and let herself be held, let herself be small, let herself forget—just for a moment—that she was eighteen years old and married and pregnant and standing in a hallway that had watched her grow up from a baby to a girl to a woman who didn't know what she was doing.
"Come," Mama said finally, pulling back. Her hands stayed on Layla's arms, steadying her. "Come to the kitchen. You need to sit down."
Layla didn't argue. She couldn't have argued if she'd wanted to. Her legs felt like they were made of something soft and unreliable, and her head was swimming, and every time she blinked she saw those three tests lined up on the bathroom counter like a jury delivering its verdict.
The kitchen was the same as it had always been. The same oak table with the same scratches on the surface—from Layla's homework, from Baba's newspaper, from years of family meals and spilled tea and hands that had rested there while stories were told. The same window over the sink, dark now, with frost creeping along the edges like it was trying to get inside. The same faint smell of cinnamon from the coffee cake Mama had baked two days ago, still lingering in the air like a memory that refused to leave.
Mama guided her to a chair. Layla sat. The wood was hard beneath her, and cold, and she shivered.
"Tea," Mama said. It wasn't a question.
She moved to the stove, filled the kettle, set it on the burner. The flame caught with a soft whoosh, blue and orange, and Mama stood there for a moment, watching it like she was waiting for something.
Layla watched her mother's back. The familiar curve of her spine. The way her cardigan hung just slightly off one shoulder. The gray that had started threading through her dark hair—more of it now than there'd been a year ago.
The kettle began to hum.
Layla wrapped her arms around herself and tried to breathe. The air in the kitchen felt thick, heavy, like it was pressing down on her from all sides. She could hear the clock in the living room ticking, the same clock that had ticked through every dinner, every argument, every quiet evening of her entire life.
She was going to have a baby.
The thought hit her again, fresh and sharp, and she pressed her hand to her stomach without thinking. There was nothing there yet—nothing she could feel, nothing she could see—but something was there. Something was growing. Something was happening inside her body that she hadn't asked for, hadn't planned for, hadn't even considered as a real possibility until three hours ago.
She was going to have a baby.
Mama set the cup of tea in front of her. Mint, steaming, with a spoonful of honey stirred in—just the way Layla liked it. The glass was warm against her palms, and she wrapped her fingers around it and let the heat seep into her skin.
"Drink," Mama said.
Layla drank.
The tea was hot and sweet, and it burned her tongue a little, and the mint was sharp and clean in a way that cut through some of the fog in her head. She took another sip. Then another. And by the time she set the glass down, her hands had stopped shaking.
Mama sat across from her. She didn't have tea. She just sat there, hands folded on the table, watching Layla with those dark eyes that missed nothing.
"Tell me," she said.
Layla opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I don't know where to start."
"Start anywhere."
Layla looked down at the table. There was a crack in the wood near the edge, a thin dark line that ran from one end to the other. She'd traced it with her finger a thousand times as a kid. She'd never thought about it until now—about how something could break and still hold together, still be useful, still be exactly what it was supposed to be.
"I always wanted to be a mother," she said quietly.
Mama didn't react. She just waited.
"I used to dream about it. When I was little, I mean. I'd play with dolls, and I'd pretend—" Layla stopped. Swallowed. "I'd pretend I was grown up. I'd pretend I had a house and a husband and babies. I'd name them. I'd pick out their clothes. I'd imagine what it would feel like to hold them."
"And?"
"And I always thought it would be—" Layla's voice caught. "I thought it would be perfect. I thought I'd be ready. I thought I'd have everything figured out. I thought I'd be older, and settled, and living somewhere with a nursery and a crib and a—" She gestured vaguely at the kitchen, at the house, at everything. "A life. A real life. Not this."
"This being?"
"This being—" Layla pressed her hands flat against the table. "This being eighteen years old and married for three months and living in my parents' house and talking to my husband on a phone that keeps cutting out. This being pregnant when I've barely even been a wife yet."
Mama nodded slowly. She didn't look surprised. She didn't look upset. She just looked like she was listening, really listening, the way she always did when something mattered.
"You're scared," she said.
"Terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of everything." The word came out in a rush. "Of telling Baba. Of telling Tarek. Of what people will say—the aunties, the community, everyone. Of being alone. Of doing this by myself. Of what it means for school, for our plans, for everything we talked about. Of—" Layla's voice cracked. "Of being a terrible mother. Of not knowing what to do. Of messing this up."
Mama reached across the table and took Layla's hands in hers. Her palms were rough and warm—the hands of a woman who cooked and cleaned and fixed things and never stopped moving, never stopped caring, never stopped being exactly where she was needed.
"You listen to me," Mama said. "You are not alone. You have never been alone. You have me. You have Baba. You have your brothers, even if they're useless sometimes. You have Tarek, even if he's far away right now. And you have Allah, who sees everything and knows everything and doesn't make mistakes."
Layla's eyes burned. "But what if—"
"No." Mama squeezed her hands. "There is no what if. There is only what is. And what is, is that you are pregnant. That is a fact. That is not a punishment. That is not a mistake. That is a life. A tiny, impossible, miraculous life. And you are going to be its mother."
"I don't know how."
"Nobody knows how." Mama's mouth curved. "Do you think I knew how? I was younger than you when I had you."
Layla blinked. "What?"
"I was seventeen." Mama's voice was matter-of-fact. "Your Baba and I had been married for six months. We were living in a one-bedroom apartment in Aleppo, and I didn't speak the dialect, and his mother hated me because I was from Damascus, and I was so sick I couldn't keep anything down for the first four months."
Layla stared at her. "You never told me that."
"You never asked." Mama shrugged. "And it wasn't a story I wanted to tell. I was scared, Layla. More scared than you can imagine. I didn't know if I was ready. I didn't know if I would be good enough. I didn't know anything except that I had a baby growing inside me and no idea what to do about it."
"What happened?"
"You were born." Mama's eyes softened. "And I held you in my arms for the first time, and I looked at your face—this tiny, perfect, angry little face—and I understood that I had been wrong. I had been so wrong. I wasn't ready. I would never be ready. But I didn't have to be. I just had to love you. And that was enough."
Layla's throat tightened. "But that was different. You had Baba. You were together."
"And you have Tarek."
"He's five thousand miles away."
"He's five thousand miles away now," Mama corrected. "Not forever. And Friday isn't forever either. You'll be in the same country. Same timezone, almost. And then you'll figure out the rest."
Layla pulled her hands back and wrapped them around her tea again. The glass had cooled, but the warmth was still there, still seeping into her skin.
"What if he doesn't want this?" she whispered.
Mama was quiet for a moment. The kettle ticked as it cooled on the stove. The clock in the living room kept ticking. Outside, a car passed, and the sound of its tires on wet asphalt faded into the night.
"He married you," Mama said finally. "He chose you. He stood in front of his family and yours and promised to love you and protect you and build a life with you. That doesn't stop because things got complicated."
"But we didn't plan this."
"Nobody plans everything." Mama leaned back in her chair. "Do you think I planned to leave Syria? Do you think I planned to raise children in a country where I didn't know the language, where the winters are six months long, where I still don't understand half the jokes people make at the grocery store? Do you think I planned any of this?"
Layla didn't answer.
"I didn't," Mama said. "But it happened anyway. And I made it work. Because that's what you do. You make it work. You figure it out. You keep going. And eventually—slowly—it stops feeling like a disaster and starts feeling like a life."
Layla's eyes filled again. She blinked the tears back. "I'm scared of telling Baba."
Mama's expression shifted. Something flickered behind her eyes—something careful, something measured.
"Baba will be fine," she said.
"How do you know?"
"Because I know him." Mama reached for her own cup—she'd never made one, but she reached anyway, like the gesture itself was comforting. "He loves you. He's a good man. He'll be shocked at first, maybe. He might yell. He might go quiet. But he'll come around."
Layla thought about Baba—about the way he read the newspaper every morning at this very table, about the way he called her "princess" even when she was too old for it, about the way he'd cried at her wedding and tried to hide it. Baba was gentle and stubborn and proud and soft all at once. Baba would be fine. She knew that. But knowledge and fear weren't the same thing.
"What if he's disappointed?"
"He won't be."
"How can you be sure?"
Mama set her cup down. "Because I'll handle it. We'll tell him together. When the moment is right. I'll make sure he understands."
Layla's shoulders sagged. "You promise?"
"I promise."
They sat in silence for a while after that. Layla drank her tea. Mama watched her. The kitchen settled around them, the same way it always did, the same way it would settle for a thousand more nights—with the hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the clock and the faint smell of cinnamon that never quite went away.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Mama asked eventually. "About being scared when you were pregnant with me. Why did you keep that to yourself?"
Mama considered it. "Because it wasn't important. Because by the time you were old enough to understand, I had forgotten. Because those early fears felt so small compared to what came after—to all the joy, all the love, all the moments I wouldn't have traded for anything. But now—" She paused. "Now I think maybe I should have told you. Maybe it would have helped. Maybe you would have known that being scared doesn't mean you're doing something wrong. It just means you're human."
Layla traced the crack in the table with her finger. "I called Tarek's phone three times tonight. Before I took the tests. He didn't answer."
"Because he's asleep."
"I know. It's just—" Layla exhaled. "I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to tell him. Even though I was scared, I wanted to tell him."
"You will tell him."
"Friday."
"Friday," Mama agreed. "When his plane lands. When he's in Arizona. When you can finally have a real conversation without a nine-hour time difference and a bad connection."
Layla nodded slowly. Friday. It felt like a long time from now. It felt like no time at all.
"What am I supposed to do until then?"
Mama's mouth twitched. "You're supposed to take care of yourself. Eat something. Sleep. Maybe—" She stood up and walked to the counter. When she turned back, she was holding a small container of dates. "Maybe have one of these. Since you're eating for two now."
Layla stared at the dates. It was such a small thing—a plastic container of fruit—but something about it made her throat close up, made her eyes sting all over again.
"Eating for two," she repeated. "That's real now. That's—" She touched her stomach again. "There's actually a person in there. Or there will be. Or—" She shook her head. "This is insane."
"This is life."
"It's insane."
"It's both." Mama sat back down and slid the dates across the table. "Eat one," she said. "You'll feel better."
Layla ate one.
The date was sweet and soft, and she chewed slowly, and for a moment—just a moment—she felt something other than fear. She felt something smaller and warmer and harder to name. Something that might have been hope.
"Do you think it's a boy or a girl?" she asked quietly.
Mama's face softened. "You just found out you're pregnant, and you're already asking that?"
"I'm just—" Layla shrugged. "I'm just wondering."
"I don't know." Mama leaned back in her chair. "What do you want?"
Layla thought about it. She thought about little hands and little feet. She thought about a tiny heartbeat. She thought about Tarek's eyes—dark and warm and full of something that made her knees weak every time she looked at him. She thought about her own mother's hands, rough and warm and steady.
"I don't know," she said finally. "A baby. Just a baby."
"That's the right answer."
Layla laughed. It surprised her—the sound came out of nowhere, sudden and bright, and it echoed off the kitchen walls and disappeared into the corners of the house.
"What?" Mama asked.
"Nothing." Layla shook her head. "I just—I didn't think I'd be laughing tonight. A few hours ago I was crying in the bathroom, and now I'm laughing about dates."
"The first few months are like that," Mama said. "Your emotions will be all over the place. Happy, sad, angry, terrified, laughing—sometimes all in the same hour. It's the hormones."
Layla's smile faded. "Great. Something to look forward to."
"It gets better."
"Does it?"
"It does." Mama reached across the table and covered Layla's hand with hers. "I promise."
They sat like that for a long time. Hours, maybe. The clock ticked. The kettle cooled. The night pressed against the windows like it was trying to get in, and Mama told her stories—about her pregnancy with Layla, about the first time she felt that flutter of movement in her belly, about the way she'd talked to her baby in the womb even though she knew it couldn't hear her. About the way Baba had fainted at the hospital. About the way they'd picked Layla's name from a list of a hundred options, and how they'd known—somehow—the moment they saw her.
Layla listened. She cried a little more. She laughed again. She ate another date, and then a third, and by the time the sky outside started to lighten, by the time the first pale gray of dawn crept through the kitchen window, she felt something she hadn't felt all night.
She felt like maybe—just maybe—she could do this.
"I should sleep," she said eventually.
Mama nodded. "You should."
"I have class tomorrow. I mean—" Layla stopped. "Today."
"We'll figure that out. You might need to take it easy for a while."
Layla stood up. Her legs were stiff from sitting so long, and her back ached, and she was so tired she could barely think. But she was still standing. She was still breathing. She was still here.
Mama walked her to the hallway. They stopped at the entrance to Layla's room—her childhood room, her quiet sanctuary, the place where she'd grown up and dreamed and wondered what her life would be.
"Try to rest," Mama said.
"I'll try."
"And Layla?"
Layla turned.
"Whatever happens," Mama said, "you're not alone. You know that, right?"
Layla nodded. Her throat was too tight for words.
Mama kissed her forehead. Then she turned and walked back toward the kitchen, and Layla stood in the hallway and watched her go.
The house was quiet. The cat clock ticked. Somewhere outside, the first birds of morning were starting to sing.
Layla walked into her room and closed the door behind her. She didn't turn on the light. She just crossed to her bed and lay down, still in her clothes, still smelling like tea and tears and the lavender soap that meant home.
She put her hand on her stomach again.
There was nothing to feel. Not yet. But there was something to hope for. Something to fight for. Something to live for.
She picked up her phone. Scrolled to Tarek's contact. Opened their last text conversation—the messages from yesterday, when he'd told her he missed her, when he'd sent a photo of the Damascus sky, when he'd written, "Three more days until I'm in the same country as you."
Friday.
She typed a message. Then deleted it. Then typed another one.
Then she closed the phone and set it on the nightstand.
Not yet. Not until Friday. Not until she could hear his voice, see his face, know that he was really there.
But soon.
Very, very soon.
Very, very soon.
The words sat in her chest like a second heartbeat, steady and strange, and Layla stared at the ceiling until the shadows stopped making sense and the room felt like it belonged to someone else. Her phone said 3:47 AM. The house was so quiet she could hear the furnace clicking on and off, could hear the ice maker in the fridge dropping cubes into the tray, could hear her own breathing like it was coming from outside her body.
She couldn't sleep.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw those three tests lined up on the bathroom counter. Every time she tried to relax, her mind started running through calculations—dates, weeks, symptoms, all the things she should have noticed but didn't. Every time she thought about Friday, about Tarek's face when she told him, about the way his voice would sound through the phone, her stomach flipped like she was falling.
She sat up.
The room was dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight outside her window, orange and hazy through the frost. Her journal was still on the nightstand, and she reached for it without thinking, flipping through pages until she found the sketches—his face, half-finished, smudged from her thumb, like she'd been trying to draw someone who wouldn't stay still.
Three months.
Three months of marriage, and most of it had been spent in a country that felt like a dream now. The smell of jasmine in his mother's garden. The way the call to prayer echoed through the streets at dawn. The way he'd looked at her across the dinner table on their wedding night, like she was something precious, something he couldn't believe was real.
She closed the journal and set it down.
She needed to move. She needed to do something with her hands, with her body, with all this energy that was buzzing under her skin like static. She stood up. Her legs felt shaky. The floor was cold through her socks.
She walked to the door. Opened it. The hallway was dark, same as always, same as it had been every night of her childhood when she'd crept to the bathroom or to the kitchen for water. The clock in the living room ticked. The house breathed around her.
She didn't know where she was going until she was already there.
Her sister's door was closed. Layla stood outside for a moment, hand hovering over the knob, listening. Nothing. Just silence. Just the soft hum of the house settling into itself.
She turned the knob slowly. Pushed the door open.
Mariam was asleep on her side, face half-buried in her pillow, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed. She was seventeen—a year younger than Layla—and she looked younger still when she slept, her mouth slightly open, her hair a dark tangle across the pillowcase.
Layla crossed the room. The floorboards creaked under her feet, and she winced, but Mariam didn't stir. She knelt beside the bed and reached out, touching her sister's shoulder.
"Mariam."
Nothing.
"Mariam." Louder this time. A shake.
Mariam's eyes fluttered open. She blinked at Layla in the darkness, confused, her voice thick with sleep. "What—what's wrong? Is everything okay?"
"Come with me."
"What?"
"Just—come with me. Please."
Something in Layla's voice must have registered, because Mariam sat up without another word. She was wearing an old t-shirt from high school, her hair a mess, her eyes still half-closed. But she followed Layla out of the room, down the hallway, back to the bedroom that still smelled like mint tea and fear.
Layla closed the door behind them. Locked it.
Mariam stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself, watching Layla with growing concern. "You're scaring me. What's going on?"
Layla opened her mouth. Closed it. The words were there, right there, but they felt impossible to say out loud. She'd said them to Mama. That had been hard enough. But saying them again—saying them to Mariam, who would react differently, who would be excited and terrified and everything in between—that was something else entirely.
"I'm pregnant."
The words fell into the room like stones into still water.
Mariam's jaw dropped. For a second, she just stared—eyes wide, mouth open, brain visibly struggling to process what she'd just heard. Then she grabbed the nearest pillow and pressed her face into it, and a sound came out—something between a scream and a sob and a laugh, muffled and fierce and entirely Mariam.
She threw the pillow aside. Launched herself at Layla. Her arms wrapped around Layla's neck so tight it was almost choking, and she was already talking, words tumbling out in a rush.
"Oh my God. Oh my God. You're—you're actually—I'm going to be an auntie. An auntie! I'm going to have a niece or a nephew. A tiny baby. A tiny little baby with tiny little fingers and tiny little toes. What are you going to name it? Have you thought about names? You should name it after me. Mariam is a beautiful name. Or maybe something Arabic and cool. What about—what about Layla Junior? No, that's weird. What about Sami? If it's a boy, you should name it Sami. Wait, that's Tarek's dad's name. Is that weird? Would that be weird?"
Layla laughed.
It came out of nowhere, unexpected, bubbling up from somewhere deep in her chest. She was crying at the same time—tears streaming down her face, hot and ridiculous—and she couldn't tell if she was laughing or sobbing or both, and Mariam was still talking, still holding her, still going on about baby names and whether the baby would have Tarek's eyes.
"He has really nice eyes," Mariam was saying. "Like, really nice. Dark and warm and—you know what I mean. If the baby gets his eyes, it's over. Everyone's going to be obsessed. Especially Mama. Can you imagine Mama with a grandbaby? She's going to lose her mind. She's going to buy so many clothes. She's going to knit things. Does Mama even knit? She's going to learn."
Layla pulled back. Wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Mariam."
"What?"
"Breathe."
Mariam stopped. Took a breath. Then another. Her eyes were bright and wild, and she was grinning so wide it looked almost painful.
"You're pregnant," she said, like she was testing the words. "My sister is pregnant. My older sister. Who got married three months ago. Who lives here. Who is going to have a baby."
"Yes."
"This is insane."
"I know."
"This is the most insane thing that has ever happened."
"I know."
Mariam grabbed Layla's hands and pulled her toward the bed. They sat down together, side by side, the mattress dipping under their weight. The room was still dark, still quiet, but it felt different now—smaller and warmer, like the walls had moved closer to hold them.
"Okay," Mariam said. "Tell me everything. When did you find out? How did you find out? Does Mama know? Does Tarek know? What did the test say? Wait—how many tests did you take? Do you have symptoms? Are you throwing up? I heard you throwing up yesterday. Was that because of this?"
Layla held up a hand. "Slow down."
"Sorry. Sorry." Mariam took another breath. "Just—start from the beginning."
So Layla did.
She told her about the nausea, the dizziness, the way she'd been feeling off for weeks and hadn't known why. She told her about Mama's question in the kitchen—the way it had hit her like a truck, the way she'd stood in the bathroom afterward, staring at the wall, trying to decide what to do. She told her about the three tests, about the pink lines, about the way her hands had shaken so hard she'd almost dropped the third one.
Mariam listened. For once, she didn't interrupt. She just sat there, holding Layla's hand, her face shifting through a dozen emotions—shock, excitement, worry, love.
"And Mama knows?" Mariam asked when Layla finished.
"She figured it out before I did."
"Of course she did." Mariam shook her head. "Mama knows everything. It's honestly creepy."
"It's not creepy."
"It's a little creepy."
Layla laughed again. It felt good—like stretching a muscle she'd forgotten she had.
"What did she say?" Mariam asked. "When you told her?"
"She made me tea. She told me about when she was pregnant with me. She said—" Layla paused. "She said being scared doesn't mean you're doing something wrong."
Mariam nodded slowly. "That sounds like Mama."
"She promised to help me tell Baba."
Mariam's expression flickered. Something shifted behind her eyes—concern, maybe, or understanding. She squeezed Layla's hand.
"What about Tarek?"
"I'm going to tell him Friday. When he lands in Arizona."
"Friday." Mariam let out a breath. "That's—soon."
"Too soon."
"Not soon enough."
Layla looked at her. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" Mariam shrugged. "He should know. He deserves to know. And you shouldn't have to carry this by yourself. Even if it's just for a few more days."
Layla stared at the floor. The carpet was old—the same carpet that had been there since they were kids, worn down in the spots where they'd walked a million times. She remembered sitting here with Mariam when they were little, playing with dolls, making up stories about the future. She remembered telling Mariam about Tarek for the first time, years ago, when it was just a crush, just a secret, just something that would never happen.
And now it had happened. All of it. And more.
"I don't know how to tell him," Layla whispered.
"You just—tell him."
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
"Because—" Layla's voice caught. "Because everything is going to change. Because we had plans. Because he's in Arizona now, and I'm here, and we're supposed to figure out how to be married from a distance, and now—now there's this. Now there's a baby. Now there's something that makes everything harder and more complicated and—"
"More real," Mariam said.
Layla stopped.
"What?"
"More real." Mariam turned to face her fully, legs crossed on the bed, eyes steady. "You and Tarek—you got married in Syria, and then you came back here, and he went back there, and it's like—it's like it didn't really happen. Like it was a dream. But this—" She gestured at Layla's stomach. "This is real. This is something you can't ignore or pretend away. This is proof."
"Proof of what?"
"That you love each other. That you're building something. That it's not just a long-distance thing that might fall apart. It's a family."
Layla's throat tightened. "What if he doesn't see it that way?"
"He will."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know Tarek." Mariam shrugged. "He's been in love with you since we were kids. Everyone knew. His mom knew. My mom knew. Even Baba knew, and Baba doesn't know anything."
Layla snorted. "Baba knows things."
"Baba knows how to fix cars and yell at the news. That's it."
"That's not true."
"Okay, fine. Baba knows more than that." Mariam paused. "But he definitely knew about Tarek. You should have seen his face at the wedding. He was trying so hard not to cry. It was actually kind of sad."
Layla smiled. Sad. Sweet. Something in between.
"Your baby is going to have the best grandparents," Mariam said. "Mama is going to spoil it rotten. Baba is going to pretend he doesn't care and then secretly buy it everything it wants. And Tarek's parents—they're going to be so happy. They're going to call every day. They're going to send gifts from Syria. They're going to—"
"Mariam."
"What?"
"Stop."
Mariam stopped. Looked at Layla. Really looked at her—at the exhaustion in her eyes, at the tension in her shoulders, at the way her hands were still trembling slightly in her lap.
"What's wrong?" Mariam asked quietly.
Layla didn't answer right away. She was thinking about Friday. About Tarek's voice on the phone. About the moment she would have to say the words out loud and wait for his response—the pause, the silence, the unknown.
"I'm scared," she said finally. "Of telling him. Of what he'll say. Of what happens next."
"He's going to be happy."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that." Mariam leaned closer. "He loves you, Layla. He married you. He chose you. That doesn't just disappear because of a surprise."
Layla wanted to believe her. She wanted to believe that Tarek would be happy, that he would wrap his arms around her and tell her everything was going to be okay. But there was a small, quiet voice in the back of her mind whispering all the things that could go wrong. All the ways this could break them.
"You're doing it again," Mariam said.
"Doing what?"
"Spiraling. I can see it on your face." Mariam poked her arm. "Stop it. You don't know what's going to happen. You can't know. So stop imagining the worst."
"It's hard."
"I know." Mariam's voice softened. "But you're not alone. You have Mama. You have me. You have Tarek, even if he's far away right now. You have all of us."
Layla nodded. She felt the tears coming again—not sad tears this time, or scared tears, but something else. Something softer.
Then Mariam's face changed.
It was subtle. A small shift. The excitement dimmed, replaced by something more careful, more serious. She opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again.
"What?" Layla asked.
"Does Baba know?"
The question landed like a stone in her chest.
Layla's face fell. The warmth she'd been feeling—the shaky, fragile warmth that had been building since she walked into this room—drained away.
"No."
"When are you going to tell him?"
"I don't know."
"Layla—"
"I don't know, Mariam." Layla pulled her hand away and wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't know how to tell him. I don't know what to say. I don't know how he's going to react. I'm more scared of telling Baba than I am of anything else. More than Tarek. More than the baby. More than all of it."
Mariam didn't say anything for a moment. She just sat there, watching Layla with those dark eyes that were so much like Mama's—missing nothing, understanding everything.
"Baba loves you," Mariam said finally.
"I know."
"He's not going to be angry."
"You don't know that."
"I know Baba." Mariam's voice was firm. "He's going to be shocked. He might go quiet. He might need to process it. But he's not going to be angry. Not at you. Not about this."
Layla shook her head. "You didn't see him after I told him about Tarek. You were at school. He didn't talk to me for two days. Two days, Mariam. I thought he was never going to forgive me."
"That was different."
"How?"
"That was about a boy. A boy taking his daughter away. This is about a baby. His grandchild. That's not the same thing."
"It's still a change. It's still something he didn't plan for. Something he didn't—" Layla's voice broke. "Something he didn't want for me. Not yet. Not like this."
Mariam reached out and took Layla's hand again. Her grip was strong—stronger than Layla expected from her little sister, from the girl who still left her shoes in the hallway and forgot to close the fridge. She was seventeen. She was young. But right now, she looked older.
"When you tell him," Mariam said, "I'll be there."
Layla looked at her. "What?"
"I'll be in the room. I'll stand right next to you. Whatever happens, whatever he says, you won't be alone."
"Mariam—"
"I'm serious." Mariam squeezed her hand. "You and me, we tell him together. We face him together. That's the deal."
Layla stared at her sister. At the determination in her face. At the way she was sitting up straight, like she was ready for something, like she was ready to fight if she had to.
"You don't have to do that," Layla whispered.
"I know I don't have to." Mariam's mouth curved. "I want to."
The tears came then. Layla couldn't stop them. They spilled over and ran down her cheeks, and she didn't wipe them away this time. She just let them fall.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay." Layla took a shaky breath. "We tell him together."
Mariam nodded. "Together."
They sat there for a long time after that—shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, the two of them against the dark. The house was quiet around them. The clock in the living room ticked. Somewhere in the distance, a car passed on wet streets, and the sound faded into nothing.
Layla didn't know what was going to happen next. She didn't know what Tarek would say on Friday, or how Baba would react when they finally told him, or what the next nine months would hold. She didn't know if she was ready, or if she would ever be ready, or if readiness was even a real thing.
But she knew she wasn't alone.
And for now—just for now—that was enough.