Chapter 13
A few seconds after I sent the message to Faisal, I received a response. He expressed that the visit from this friend was unwelcome and wished for it not to happen again, concluding his message with a hope that I would have a pleasant evening and that he could find sleep. I almost weakened and called him to say that the visit had been postponed, but I restrained myself, holding on tightly to my self-control, so I wouldn’t act impulsively. The story of Aunt Hana was still weighing heavily on my thoughts.
I lay down on my bed, reciting Ayat al-Kursi three times, Al-Fatiha seven times, and then I began to say my prayers a hundred times. I’m not sure if I completed the hundred because I fell into a deep sleep, only waking up to the call for Fajr prayer.
As part of the routine I’ve had since getting a mobile phone, I checked the screen as soon as I woke up. But looking at the screen has become an all-time addiction now. The first thing I saw was a message from Faisal expressing his longing for me. I put the phone back in its place, feeling refreshed and full of energy. I decided to call him after I answered the call of my Creator.
After finishing my prayer, I tried to call Faisal, but his phone was off, indicating that he was still in the mosque. I waited ten minutes and called again, and his voice came through, full of longing, saying how unfair I was to him and to the feelings he had for me. He asked about my friend.
I told him she was still asleep, feeling a pang of guilt over this small lie, the first in my married life. I silently vowed never to resort to such deceptions again.
Our conversations, as usual, were a mix of jokes, seriousness, and lightheartedness. I never grew tired of talking to him, even when he ran out of things to say. I would tell him to continue, and he would say, “I’ve run out of stories. You go ahead.” I would tell him that I didn’t have any stories, that I was just a good listener and never got tired of his stories. He would reply, “I’ll remind you of this one day.” I’d counter with, “Remind yourself of all your promises to me, that you’ll never get tired of me, and that our first day together will be just like every day in our lives.”
He playfully responded, “When did I say that?”
I reminded him, “When you visited us for the first time. Do you remember?”
He cheekily replied, “Of course not.”
I retorted, “In that case, goodbye.”
Quickly, he said, “I do remember, my dear. Why can’t you take a joke?”
I replied, “I can’t handle jokes that involve serious matters. Don’t change the subject. Tell me, will you remember your words one day?”
He responded with a heavy tone, “Words spoken at night are erased when the morning sun shines upon them,” then let out a hearty laugh that resonated all around me.
Feigning annoyance, I said, “Forgetting already? This doesn’t bode well for the future.”
He controlled his laughter, took a deep breath, and said, “The future holds happiness in a garden where you are the rose.”
Our call ended as Faisal needed to head to work.
The days passed with phone calls from Faisal, preparations for the new school year, and a great deal of anticipation for the first day back. The long-awaited day arrived, with plans that I hadn’t anticipated. When Faisal came to our city at nine in the evening, my mother was, as usual, tense and anxious, while Hassam was practically bursting with joy. Omar, as always, did his best to embarrass me. When I dressed up and took extra care of my appearance—something I didn’t usually do—he commented, “So, Engineer Faisal is coming to visit.”
When it comes to Omar, silence is golden.
I won’t go into the details of our meeting; your imagination can fill in the blanks better than I can describe it. Just don’t let your imagination run too wild—it’s not good for you.
Our plan was for me to travel to the city where I study, accompanied by Faisal. This agreement was between Faisal and me, and I hadn’t informed anyone else. I was therefore surprised by a series of objections, most notably from Hassam, who argued that Faisal’s family’s traditions wouldn’t allow such a thing. My mother countered, “But our traditions do allow it, and with you accompanying them in your car, what could possibly happen?”
Hassam replied, “You’ll ruin our reputation in front of this man.”
My mother sharply retorted, “He chose our family; he knows our customs. Why would we pretend otherwise?”
I stayed silent during this heated exchange until my mother turned to me and asked, “Were you the one who suggested this idea to Faisal?”
I swore to her that I hadn’t and explained that Faisal had suggested it to me. I had no idea there would be any objections. I glanced at Hassam, who returned my look with a tired expression, clearly weary of the argument.
My mother turned back to Hassam, telling him that Faisal knew we wouldn’t object, which is why he suggested it. She warned Hassam not to be the cause of the first conflict between Faisal and me, as it would weaken my position and make it seem like our family didn’t trust their daughter. My mother ended the conversation with a tone that left no room for further debate, saying, “Let them go. You accompany them, make sure they return early, and allow them some freedom to stop at a restaurant for dinner.”
She gave me a look filled with meaning, a look I knew well, and added, “I trust Mona and her good judgment.”
The discussion ended with my mother’s departure, a look of disapproval from Hassam, and a heavy silence that enveloped me.
The day finally arrived. My mother bid me farewell with words that carried the weight of a mother’s wisdom: “Your happiness and stability are in your hands. I won’t stop you from pursuing something you desire, but remember, it’s your good judgment that will maintain this happiness. Be wise.”
Faisal’s car carried with it a love I had never imagined. Hassam, as always, made it a point to tease and pester Faisal, calling frequently and hovering nearby. Each time Hassam called or approached our car, Faisal would sigh and show his annoyance, while Hassam responded with a silly grin.
I asked Faisal, “Are you upset with Hassam?”
He replied, “I never realized how annoying he was until he became my brother-in-law.”
I laughed from the bottom of my heart, and Faisal joined me, though his annoyance still lingered on his face. Seeing us laugh, Hassam called Faisal to ask what was so funny, only for Faisal to hang up on him and then threaten to strangle him when we drove side by side. But Hassam just kept smiling that silly grin.
The journey ended with a delicious dinner at a family restaurant. Hassam tried to join us, but Faisal, irritated, told him, “You take your sister to dinner, and I’ll return home.” What could have escalated into a serious argument between them turned into playful banter, the kind only men can understand—where serious words turn into jokes effortlessly.
With a companion like Faisal, time flew by. However, seeing the restaurant where I used to have lunch with Ahlem on the first day after every holiday made me sad because it was closed. A large sign read, “For Sale. Contact ***********.”
Has everything between Ahlem and me closed down as well?
What does this new school year hold for me and the new Ahlem?