Chapter 7: Chapter 7
The first light came gray and unwelcome through the slatted blinds.
Mohammed woke with his face pressed into Mahra's hair, the taste of stale sweat on his tongue, his bladder full and his head thick with the kind of fatigue that made everything feel slightly unreal. For a moment, he didn't remember where he was. Then Mahra shifted against him, her bare thigh sliding over his hip, and everything came flooding back.
The heat.
The screaming.
The sound of Zainab's breath hitching in the corner.
He turned his head. The corner was empty. The mattress was still there—pushed against the wall, the blanket folded into a neat square on top—but Zainab herself was gone. Through the thin walls, he could hear the clatter of pots in the kitchen. The smell of cardamom and frying eggs drifted in through the gap under the door.
Mahra stirred.
"What time is it?" she mumbled.
"Early."
"Define early."
"Before seven."
She groaned and rolled onto her back, throwing an arm over her eyes. Her body was a map of the night before—red marks on her chest where her own nails had dug in, faint bruises on her hips shaped like his fingertips, a dried smear of something on her inner thigh that could have been sweat or spit or both.
"I need to shower," she said.
"You do."
"You're not going to join me?"
"The water pressure's been shit since Tuesday. You'll be lucky to get a trickle."
She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and stretched. Her spine cracked—a series of small, sharp pops that made him wince. She didn't seem to notice. She just stood, naked and unselfconscious, and padded toward the door.
"Where's my jalabiya?"
"You threw it on the floor."
She found it, pulled it over her head, and disappeared into the hallway. A moment later, he heard the bathroom door close. The pipes groaned. The shower hissed to life.
Mohammed lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the apartment waking up. The clang of a spoon against a pot. The low murmur of Zainab's voice—she was talking to herself, the way she always did when she cooked, a running commentary in Farsi that Mahra had learned to tune out years ago but that Mohammed still found oddly comforting.
He got up.
His back ached. His knees ached. He was thirty-one years old and felt twice that. He pulled on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt that might have been clean, might have been from the pile on the chair, and made his way to the kitchen.
Zainab was standing at the stove, her back to him. She was wearing the same house dress from last night—or maybe a different one, it was hard to tell; they all looked the same, faded floral prints in shades of blue and green. Her hair was loose, falling down her back in a dark wave. She hadn't noticed him yet.
He watched her for a moment. The way she moved—efficient, practiced, the kind of movement that came from decades of doing the same thing every morning. She cracked an egg one-handed against the rim of the pan. Added salt. Stirred.
"Good morning," he said.
She didn't startle. Didn't turn around.
"There's tea," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the counter. "The kettle's still hot."
He poured himself a cup. The liquid was dark and bitter, the way she liked it, with just enough sugar to cut through the tannins. He leaned against the counter and watched her cook.
"You sleep okay?" he asked.
A pause. The spatula scraped against the pan.
"Eventually."
He took a sip of tea. The heat burned his tongue. He didn't care.
"Zainab—"
"Don't."
The word hung in the air between them. She still hadn't turned around. Her shoulders were tense, her spine straight. The curve of her hip pressed against the counter—soft, full, the kind of body that came from a lifetime of good food and hard work and the slow accumulation of years.
"I wasn't going to say anything," he said.
"Good."
She slid the eggs onto a plate. Added a piece of flatbread. Poured a second cup of tea and set it beside the plate. Then she finally turned.
Her face was a mask. Not angry. Not embarrassed. Just—blank. The kind of blank that took effort. The kind of blank that meant she was thinking about something and didn't want anyone to know what.
"Eat," she said. "You have work."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat."
He didn't argue. He sat at the small table—the one that barely fit two chairs, the one they'd bought from a secondhand shop three years ago—and pulled the plate toward him. The eggs were perfect. They always were.
Zainab didn't sit. She stood by the stove, her back to him again, drinking her tea in small, deliberate sips.
The bathroom door opened down the hall. Mahra's footsteps, soft and bare, padded toward them. She appeared in the doorway a moment later, her hair wet and dripping, her jalabiya clinging to her damp skin.
"Smells good," she said.
"There's eggs."
"I see."
She slid into the chair across from Mohammed, stole a piece of his flatbread, and bit into it. She chewed with her mouth open—a habit that had annoyed him when they first got married, that he'd long since stopped noticing.
"You okay, Mama?" she asked.
Zainab didn't turn around.
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"No reason."
The silence that followed was thick. Not hostile. Not awkward. Just—present. The three of them existing in the same small space, breathing the same air, not saying any of the things that needed to be said.
Mohammed finished his eggs. Drank his tea. Stood.
"I should get ready," he said.
"Mm."
He left them there—mother at the stove, daughter at the table—and went to find his work clothes. The bedroom was still a disaster. The sheets smelled like sex and sweat. The AC hummed uselessly in the corner.
He dressed quickly. A button-down shirt. Slacks. The good shoes, the ones he saved for client meetings. He checked his reflection in the mirror by the door—his hair needed cutting, there were circles under his eyes that hadn't been there a week ago—and decided he didn't care.
When he came back to the kitchen, Zainab was sitting at the table, her hands wrapped around her tea. Mahra was standing behind her, braiding her hair—a slow, careful motion that Mohammed had seen a hundred times. Mother and daughter. The same dark eyes. The same stubborn set to their jaw.
"I'll be back by six," he said.
"We'll be here," Mahra replied.
He hesitated. There was something he wanted to say—something about last night, about what had happened, about the thin walls and the heat and the way the three of them had been breathing in the dark. But the words wouldn't come. They never did.
So he just nodded.
And left.
---
The day passed the way days always passed—in a blur of traffic and phone calls and the slow grind of building something out of nothing. Mohammed worked in real estate, which in the UAE meant he spent most of his time convincing people that a two-bedroom apartment in Sharjah was worth the commute, that the view from the seventeenth floor was worth the price, that yes, the neighborhood was safe, no, the landlord wasn't crazy, yes, the AC worked, no, the water pressure wasn't always great but it was manageable.
He didn't think about last night.
He didn't think about the way Mahra had screamed.
He didn't think about the way Zainab had watched.
He didn't think about the way he'd seen her hand moving under the blanket, the way her breath had changed, the way she'd turned her face into the pillow and come.
He didn't think about any of it.
Not until he was driving home, stuck on Sheikh Zayed Road in traffic that stretched for miles in every direction, and his phone buzzed with a message from Mahra.
Come home soon. Mama's making something special.
He typed back: What's the occasion?
She won't say.
He set the phone down and stared at the car in front of him. The sun was setting—a smear of orange and pink across the sky, the kind of sunset that tourists photographed and locals ignored. The AC in his car was working fine. Cold air, full blast. He shivered.
Mama's making something special.
He didn't know what that meant. He didn't know what any of this meant. But he pressed the gas when the car in front of him moved, and he kept driving.
---
The apartment smelled like saffron and roasting lamb.
Mohammed kicked off his shoes at the door and followed the scent to the kitchen. Zainab was at the stove again, but this time she was wearing something different—a dark green dress with gold embroidery along the neckline, the kind of dress she saved for weddings and funerals and the occasional visit from relatives she wanted to impress.
"I'm home," he said.
"In here."
He found Mahra setting the table. She'd put on a clean jalabiya—white this time, with thin straps that showed off her collarbones, her shoulders, the soft hollow at the base of her throat. Her hair was loose. She'd put on earrings. Gold ones, small and delicate, that caught the light.
"You dressed up," he said.
"So did Mama."
He looked at Zainab. She was still facing the stove, but he could see the curve of her cheek, the way her lips were set in something that might have been a smile.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Nothing," Mahra said. "Can't we just have a nice dinner?"
"You can. I'm just—"
"Sit down."
He sat.
The table was small, but they'd managed to fit three chairs around it—the two regular ones plus a folding chair they usually kept in the closet. Zainab brought the food: lamb with saffron rice, yogurt with cucumber, a salad, flatbread, pickled vegetables. More food than the three of them could eat in a week.
"This is incredible," Mohammed said.
"Eat," Zainab replied.
They ate.
The conversation was light—work, the news, a cousin in Tehran who was getting married. Nothing important. Nothing real. But underneath it all, there was something else. A current. A charge. Mohammed could feel it in the way Mahra's foot brushed against his under the table. In the way Zainab's eyes lingered on him a moment too long when she passed the bread.
When the plates were empty and the tea was poured, Zainab sat back in her chair and folded her hands.
"I want to talk about last night," she said.
The room went still.
Mahra's cup paused halfway to her lips. Mohammed felt his stomach tighten.
"Mama—" Mahra started.
"No. Let me speak."
She looked at them—first Mahra, then Mohammed, then back again. Her face was still that careful mask, but there was something underneath it now. Something soft. Something raw.
"I'm not stupid," she said. "I know what you two do. I've known for a long time."
Mahra opened her mouth. Zainab held up a hand.
"I'm not finished. I know what you do, and I don't care. You're married. It's your business. But last night—" She paused. Took a breath. "Last night was different."
Mohammed's heart was pounding. He could feel it in his throat, his wrists, the tips of his fingers.
"I was watching," Zainab said. "You knew I was watching. And I—" Another pause. "I didn't stop."
The silence stretched.
"I should have looked away. I should have closed my eyes. But I didn't. I couldn't." She met Mahra's eyes. "I'm your mother. I'm not supposed to—"
"Mama."
"—I'm not supposed to feel that way. I'm not supposed to want—"
"Mama, stop."
Mahra reached across the table and took her mother's hand. Zainab's fingers were trembling. Her eyes were wet.
"I'm not ashamed," Mahra said. "I'm not."
"You should be."
"Why? Because you watched? Because you touched yourself?" Mahra's voice was gentle. Steady. "You think I don't know what it's like to be alone? To be in that bed every night and feel like you're invisible?"
Zainab flinched.
"Papa's been gone for seven years," Mahra said. "Seven years. You think I expect you to just—stop? To pretend you don't have needs? To pretend you're not human?"
"I'm your mother."
"And you're a woman. You can be both."
Zainab pulled her hand away. Wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist. Stood.
"I'm going to bed," she said.
"Mama—"
"Goodnight."
She walked out of the kitchen. A moment later, the bathroom door closed.
Mahra sat there, staring at the spot where her mother had been. Mohammed didn't know what to say. He didn't know if there was anything to say.
"That went well," Mahra said finally.
"That was—"
"Terrible. I know."
She stood, cleared the plates, and carried them to the sink. Her movements were mechanical. Precise. The way she always got when she was trying not to feel something.
"Give her time," Mohammed said.
"I know."
"She just needs—"
"I know."
He stood and walked up behind her. Wrapped his arms around her waist. Pressed his face into her hair. She was still for a moment, and then she leaned back into him, her body softening against his.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"I love you."
"I know."
She turned in his arms and kissed him. Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that wasn't about sex, wasn't about want, wasn't about anything except the simple fact of being alive and being together and being okay.
"Let's go to bed," she said.
"Are you tired?"
"No."
She took his hand and led him down the hall. The bedroom was dark—Zainab had already claimed her corner, her body a still shape under the blanket. Mahra didn't look at her. She just pulled Mohammed onto the mattress and curled against him, her head on his chest, her breath warm against his skin.
They lay there in the dark.
The AC hummed.
The heat pressed down.
And from the corner, so soft he almost missed it, Mohammed heard the sound of Zainab crying.