Chapter 21

Have you ever experienced a strange sense of calm, where you feel hollow inside and all the stimuli around you seem meaningless? Yet, despite this emptiness, you have no desire to return to the past, whether it was filled with joy or sorrow. It’s a bizarre feeling—one even more perplexing because it doesn’t bring any anxiety. It’s as if my soul, in its deep serenity, is whispering, "What could possibly happen next?"

The person who made me seem like a traitor in the eyes of my friend later became my beloved. Today, I am nothing to him, and he is now a bitter memory to me. My hardest task yet is to explain all of this to my mother.

The final year of my studies was exhausting—between the graduation thesis, the training, and my strange emotional state. A week before the final exams, Hussam and I decided to return to our hometown for two days before I entered the study grind. It’s hard to describe my feelings at that time. They were a mix of calm and anxiety, paired with a genuine desire to reveal everything to my mother, yet coupled with a real fear of the consequences.

Despite this, I forced myself to have this difficult conversation. My mother’s reception was, as always, warm and loving, with Omar adding his usual dose of humor. The only damper was when he said, "The countdown to your departure has begun." I didn’t respond because my mother welcomed me with open arms, which I accepted with both eagerness for her affection and fear of it.

That evening, as usual, Hussam and Omar went out to spend time with their friends, while my mother and I stayed up together. The silence enveloped the room, broken only by the voices of the women on TV, engaged in a lively discussion on a popular talk show. My mother was engrossed in the program. I had no idea how to start the conversation, but I knew it had to happen. I silently recited Al-Fatiha and Ayat al-Kursi, then said, "Mom, can we talk about something?"

My mother, having set aside the TV show, responded warmly, "Of course, dear."

I didn’t beat around the bush. "Faisal and I want to separate."

I was speaking with my eyes glued to the floor, not wanting to see the reaction that would inevitably appear on my mother’s face. I didn’t want to waver.

She responded in an angry tone, "Mona, is this a joke, or are you just nervous about the wedding?"

I replied, "Neither. It’s serious, and we’re almost in agreement."

My mother’s tone was still laced with anger as she demanded, "Mona, when you talk to me, look me in the eye." Then she added, "What are these reasons of yours, and what are his?"

I met her gaze, though her angry expression was almost frightening—or maybe it was just the gravity of my request that made her look that way. I answered, "He has his reasons, and I have mine."

She asked, "Do you know his reasons?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Could I know them too?" she pressed.

I tried to dodge the question. "What’s the point of knowing them if they won’t change anything?"

Her anger intensified as she said, "The point, my dear, is to understand what’s going on. If my daughter is about to be divorced two months before her wedding, I need to know if it’s her fault or his. I need to know whether I should stand by my daughter or if I should be ashamed of her actions."

I couldn’t muster a single word. My mother’s anger was overwhelming.

Then, to my shock, she grabbed my arm, pulled me to my feet, and said, "Mona, tell me what happened, or I swear you won’t leave your room except to be buried. Don’t think that my love for you will excuse any behavior that disgraces this family or tarnishes our name. Your father’s reputation will remain intact, even if it means yours is destroyed."

My mother was harsher than I’d ever known her to be. Was the situation really that serious? Two people disagree and separate—why would that bring shame to anyone?

It was as if my mother read my thoughts when she said, "Don’t think that divorce is just about two people not getting along. Not getting along means there are reasons. What are they?" She paused, letting go of my arm and collapsing onto the sofa, placing her hand on her head. "Mona, have you repeated Hana’s story?"

At that moment, I threw myself at her feet, kissing them as I cried out, "I swear I didn’t!"

After taking a deep breath, but still clearly shaken, she asked, "Mona, what did you do?"

I was on the brink of stubbornness, but seeing my mother’s heartbreak softened me. I could endure the harshness of a lover, but not the pain of a beloved mother. I laid my head on her knee and said, "He’s doubting my character." Then, I told her the whole story, from the beginning with Ahlam to the recording, and finally, my refusal to explain.

She asked, "Mona, what’s on the recording?"

I tried to evade by saying, "It’s just some silly girl talk."

But my mother persisted, saying, "I’m not Faisal, so don’t defy me. Tell me exactly what was in the recording."

The anger in her eyes was intense. I didn’t want to ignite it further by detailing the recording, but she pushed, saying, "Mona, tell me, or I’ll call Ahlam myself and get it from her."

The thought of that terrified me. The situation would escalate, so I decided to endure my mother’s wrath. I admitted, "The recording has my voice saying that Professor Ghadnafar’s eyes are the most beautiful eyes a woman could wake up to in the morning. That seeing them when I wake up would be my greatest wish."

I didn’t finish the rest. Do you know why? Because my mother roughly lifted me off her knee and stood me up with her. For the first time, she slapped me hard.

She didn’t stop there but followed with, "I thought our family’s reputation was in safe hands because I trusted how I raised you. I never imagined the day would come when I would have to defend my daughter’s honor without a shred of evidence to support her."

She then demanded, "Give me your phone."

I handed it over without question. She started pressing buttons, and after a moment, she asked, "Under what name is Faisal’s number saved?"

I fell at her feet again, pleading with her not to lower my standing in his eyes. But she pushed me away, saying, "I won’t lower your standing. I’ll raise it. I’ll defend my upbringing before I defend you. If a divorce is inevitable, so be it, but Faisal will know that our daughter is innocent, and her only crime was a reckless joke."

Then she added, "I won’t defend you to ensure your wedding happens, but I’ll fight to keep our family’s name spotless. Perhaps I can succeed at that."

She then shouted, "Tell me what name you saved Faisal’s number under."

I answered, defeated, "A heart emoji."

She glared at me and ordered, "Go to your room."

I obeyed, not knowing what happened during the conversation. The only thing I heard was my mother saying, "Hello, Faisal. This is Mona’s mother."