too, if Isra gave them another girl. Isra had forced a laugh, unsure of Fareeda’s actual intentions. It was possible. She knew women back home whose husbands had married again because they couldn’t bear a son. What if Fareeda was serious? She shook the fear away, feeling foolish at the thought. It shouldn’t matter if her baby was a girl. Even the Qur’an said that girls were a blessing, a gift. Lately she had been reciting the verse in her prayers. Daughters are a means to salvation and a path to Paradise. She traced her belly and muttered the verse again.
Now she smiled, the prayer filling her with hope. She needed tawwakul, submission to God’s will. She had to trust in His plan for her. She had to have faith in her naseeb. She reminded herself how blessed she had felt when Deya was born. What if Allah had made her pregnant again so soon in order to give her a son? Maybe a son would make Adam love her. She closed her eyes and recited another prayer, asking God to grow love in Adam’s heart.
She had failed to earn his love despite her many efforts. She had learned to recognize the patterns of his behavior, to anticipate his shifting temperament, to better please him. Most nights, for instance, Adam’s mood was volatile—particularly when Fareeda gave him a new request, like paying another semester of Ali’s college tuition, or when Khaled asked him to work longer hours in the deli. To compensate, Isra would be extra accommodating, slipping into her best nightgown, fixing his dinner plate just the way he liked, reminding herself not to complain or provoke him. Then there were nights when he would come home jolly, smiling at her when she greeted him in the kitchen, sometimes even pulling her in for an embrace, rubbing his scratchy beard against her skin. With this small gesture, she would know he was in a good mood, and that, after dinner, he would roll on top of her, pull up her nightgown and, breathing heavily in her ear, press himself into her. In the dark, she would close her eyes and wait for his panting to settle, unsure whether to feel happy or sad about his good mood. Uncertain whether she would have preferred for him to come home angry.
“Why are you so quiet?” Adam said when he came home from work one night, slurping on the freekeh soup she had spent the day preparing. “Did I marry a statue?”
Isra looked up from her bowl, which she had placed on the table because Adam said he didn’t like eating alone. She could feel her face burn with shock and embarrassment. What did Adam expect her to say? She did nothing besides cook and clean all day, her hand in Fareeda’s hand, never a moment’s rest. She had nothing interesting to talk about, unlike Adam, who left to work every morning, who spent most of his day in the city. Shouldn’t he initiate the conversation? Besides, he had told her he liked quiet women.
“I mean, I knew you were quiet when I married you,” Adam said, shoving a spoonful of soup into his mouth. “But a year with my mother should’ve loosened you up.” He looked up from his bowl, and Isra noticed that his eyes were glassy and bloodshot. She wondered if he was sick.
“She is quite the woman, my mother,” Adam said. “Nothing like any of the women in your village, I’m sure.”
Isra studied his face. Why were his eyes so red? She had never seen him like this before.
“No, not Fareeda,” he mumbled to himself. “One of a kind, as her name suggests. But she earned that right, you know, after all she’s been through.” He propped both elbows on the kitchen table. “Did you know that her family relocated to the refugee camps when she was six years old? Probably not. She doesn’t like to talk about it. But she lived a tough life, my mother. She married my father and raised us in those camps, rolled up her sleeves and endured.”
Isra met his eyes and then looked quickly away. Even if she tried to act like Fareeda, she couldn’t. She wasn’t strong enough.
“Speaking of my mother,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “what have you two been up to lately?”
“Sometimes we visit the neighbors when the chores are done,” Isra said.