Chapter 11: Chapter 11
The water ran cold for a long time before either of them moved.
Mahra's hands stayed on her mother's shoulders, the soap long since rinsed away, her palms flat against skin that was softer than she'd expected. Zainab hadn't flinched. Hadn't stepped back. She just stood there under the spray, her eyes half-closed, her breath coming slow and even.
The bathroom was small—barely big enough for one person, let alone two—and their bodies were pressed close, hip to hip, the curve of Zainab's belly brushing against Mahra's stomach.
Neither of them spoke.
The cold water numbed Mahra's fingers first, then her toes, then the tips of her ears. She should turn it off. Should step out. Should grab a towel and pretend this was normal, that mothers and daughters showered together every morning in this apartment, that nothing had changed.
But she didn't move.
Neither did Zainab.
The door creaked open.
Mohammed stood in the doorway, still in his towel, his expression unreadable. He looked at them—both of them, wet and naked and pressed together under the cold spray—and didn't say a word.
Mahra met his eyes.
He didn't look away.
The moment stretched. The water kept running. Somewhere in the apartment, the AC rattled and hissed, fighting a losing battle against the heat.
"Breakfast," Mohammed said finally. His voice was steady. Casual. Like he'd walked in on them making tea. "I'm making eggs."
He turned and walked away.
The spell broke.
Zainab stepped back, her feet slipping on the wet tile. Mahra caught her arm—instinct, nothing more—and steadied her.
"I should—" Zainab started.
"Yeah."
Mahra reached past her and turned off the water. The silence that followed was deafening—just the drip of the faucet, the distant sizzle of oil from the kitchen, the hammering of her own heart.
Zainab grabbed a towel from the hook and wrapped it around herself. She didn't look at Mahra. Didn't say anything. Just pushed past her and out the door, leaving wet footprints on the tile.
Mahra stood alone in the bathroom.
She grabbed her own towel. Pressed it to her face. Breathed in the smell of soap and cold water and something else—something she couldn't name.
When she finally made it to the kitchen, Zainab was already dressed, sitting at the table with her hands wrapped around a fresh glass of tea. Mohammed stood at the stove, his back to both of them, flipping eggs in a pan that had seen better days.
The smell of cumin and frying onions filled the room.
Mahra sat down across from her mother.
Nobody spoke.
Mohammed slid the eggs onto three plates, added bread, and carried them to the table. He sat down next to Mahra, his knee pressing against hers under the table.
"Eat," he said.
They ate.
The eggs were good—salty, greasy, exactly what she needed. Mahra tore off a piece of bread and scooped up a bite, chewing slowly, watching her mother do the same. Zainab ate like she was somewhere else. Like her body was at the table but her mind was still in the bathroom, still under that cold water, still pressed against—
"How did you sleep?" Mohammed asked.
The question was so absurd that Mahra almost laughed.
Zainab looked up. Blinked. "Fine."
"Good."
"Yourself?"
"Fine."
The small talk was unbearable. Mahra wanted to scream. Wanted to flip the table. Wanted to grab both of them and shake them until they said something real.
But she didn't.
She just kept eating.
When the plates were empty, Mohammed cleared them without being asked. He washed the dishes in the tiny sink, his back still turned, giving them space. Giving them time.
Mahra watched him—the flex of his shoulders, the way his boxers rode low on his hips, the water dripping from his elbows. She loved him. She loved him so much it hurt.
"I should go to the market," Zainab said.
Mahra turned. "Now?"
"We need vegetables. Rice. The cupboard is almost empty."
"I'll come with you."
"No." Zainab stood up, her chair scraping against the tile. "I'll go alone."
Mahra opened her mouth to argue, but Mohammed caught her eye and shook his head. Just slightly. Just enough.
"Okay," Mahra said.
Zainab grabbed her abaya from the hook by the door and pulled it over her head. She didn't bother with the hijab—she never did at home, never had, not even in Iran. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, still damp from the shower.
At the door, she paused.
"I'll be back in an hour," she said.
"Okay."
"Maybe two."
"Okay."
Zainab looked at her—really looked, that same unreadable stare from earlier, the one that said I see you, the one that said I know exactly what you are.
And then she was gone.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Mahra sat at the table, her hands flat on the surface, her heart pounding in her throat. Mohammed turned off the water and dried his hands on his towel.
"She's confused," he said.
"I know."
"She doesn't know what she wants."
"I know."
He walked to the table and sat down across from her. His face was calm—that same calm he always had, that steady, unshakeable thing that made her feel safe even when everything else was falling apart.
"What do you want?" he asked.
Mahra looked at him.
The question was simple. The answer wasn't.
"I don't know," she said.
"That's okay."
"Is it?"
He reached across the table and took her hand. His fingers were warm. Rough. Familiar.
"I love you," he said. "Whatever happens. Whatever this becomes. I love you."
The words hit her somewhere deep—below her ribs, below her stomach, somewhere in the core of her. She squeezed his hand.
"I love you too."
They sat there for a long time. The AC rattled. The city hummed. The apartment settled into its usual rhythm of noise and heat and dust.
Eventually, Mahra stood up.
"I'm going to get dressed," she said.
"Okay."
She walked to the bedroom. The mattress in the corner—Zainab's mattress—was still unmade, the sheets tangled, the pillow dented. Mahra stared at it for a moment. At the imprint of her mother's body. At the spot where Zainab had lain last night, watching.
She pulled on a clean jalabiya. No underwear. She didn't see the point.
When she came back to the living room, Mohammed was on the couch, scrolling through his phone. He looked up when she entered. Smiled.
"Come here," he said.
She went.
She sat on his lap, her knees on either side of his hips, her jalabiya riding up around her thighs. He put his hands on her waist and looked at her—just looked, like he was memorizing every inch of her face.
"I meant what I said," he told her.
"I know."
"Whatever you need. Whatever you want. I'm here."
She leaned down and kissed him. Soft at first. Then harder. His hands slid up her back, under the jalabiya, palms flat against her skin.
The door opened.
They both froze.
Zainab stood in the doorway, two plastic bags in her arms, her eyes on them—on Mahra straddling Mohammed's lap, on his hands under her clothes, on the way they were pressed together.
She didn't look away.
She didn't blink.
She just stepped inside, closed the door behind her, and walked to the kitchen.
"I got tomatoes," she said. Her voice was steady. "And cucumbers. And that bread you like."
Mahra climbed off Mohammed's lap. Her face was hot—not with embarrassment, not exactly, but with something else. Something she couldn't name.
"Thanks, Mama," she said.
"Mm."
Zainab unpacked the groceries. She moved slowly, deliberately, putting each item in its place. The tomatoes in the bowl. The cucumbers in the fridge. The bread on the counter.
When she was done, she turned around.
"I'm going to lie down," she said.
"Okay."
"For a while."
"Okay."
Zainab walked to the bedroom. At the doorway, she paused—same as before, same as always—and looked back at Mahra.
"The water was cold," she said.
"Yeah."
"Next time, let me go first."
She disappeared into the bedroom.
Mahra stood in the middle of the living room, her heart hammering, her mind blank.
Mohammed came up behind her. Put his hands on her shoulders. Kissed the back of her neck.
"Next time," he murmured.
Mahra closed her eyes.
The AC rattled. The city hummed. Somewhere in the bedroom, the mattress creaked as Zainab lay down.
And Mahra stood there, caught between two people who loved her, and wondered what the hell was going to happen next.