Some nights they would even read together. Last week they’d rushed through Pride and Prejudice in four nights so Sarah could write an essay on it for her English class. They’d sat together on Isra’s bed, knees grazing, the book like a warm fire between them.
“You’re going to love these,” Sarah told Isra that night. She placed a pile of books on the bed, and Isra scanned them, noticing that a few were picture books. She picked up Oh, the Places You’ll Go! by Dr. Seuss.
“I know you wanted more books for the girls,” Sarah said. “I think it’s really great that you’re reading to them. It will help with their English. You don’t want them to struggle with it when they start school like I did.”
“Thank you,” Isra said with a smile. Ever since Sarah had started bringing her picture books for the girls, she had begun gathering her daughters around her before she put them to bed, a picture book spread across her lap. She thought they liked the softness of her voice in English, the sound of her tongue as she pronounced unfamiliar words. A gust of happiness would fill her in those moments as she watched her daughters, smiling wide, looking up at her as though she was the best mother in the world, as though she hadn’t failed them every day of their lives.
“Is there anything specific you want to read tonight?” Sarah asked. “There’s lots of good books here.” She pointed to a black-and-white cover. “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is one of my favorites, but I don’t know if you’ll love it as much as I do.”
Isra looked up. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not a romance.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
“Glad of what?”
“That it’s not a romance.”
Sarah met her eyes. “Since when?”
“I just don’t have a taste for romances anymore,” Isra said. “I’d rather read a book that teaches me something.” She paused. “A story that is more realistic.”
“Are you saying you don’t think love stories are realistic?”
Isra shrugged.
“What’s this? Isra, a cynic?” Sarah laughed. “I can’t believe my ears. What have I done to you?”
Isra only smiled. “What are you reading in class?”
“We just started one of my favorites, a novel about a world where books are outlawed and burned. Can you imagine life without books?”
If Sarah had asked this question four years before or even one year before, back when Isra had abandoned her books, she would’ve said yes. But now, reading with the same dedication with which she had once performed her five daily prayers, Isra couldn’t imagine it.
“I hope that never happens,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d do.”
Sarah looked at her curiously.
“What?” Isra asked.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“You just seem different.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”
Isra smiled at her. “I’m just happy, that’s all.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Thanks to you.”
“Me?”
Isra nodded. “Ever since I started reading again, I feel like I’m in a trance, or maybe like I’ve come out of one. Something has come over me—I don’t know how to describe it—it might sound dramatic, but I feel hopeful for the first time in years. I don’t know why exactly, but I have you to thank for it.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” Sarah said, blushing. “It’s nothing.”
Isra met her eyes. “It’s not nothing, and it’s not just the books. It’s your friendship, too. You’ve given me something to look forward to for the first time in years.”
“I hope you always feel happy,” Sarah whispered.
Isra smiled. “Me too.”
In her bedroom closet, Isra was careful to keep her books hidden beneath a pile of clothes. She didn’t know how Adam would react if she told him she had been reading while he was at work. She assumed he would hit her, or worse, prevent Sarah from bringing her books. After all, if Mama had forbidden Isra from reading Middle Eastern books for fear of any nontraditional influence, she could only imagine what Adam would do if he knew she was reading Western novels. But to her relief, he was barely home.
Still, Isra was surprised Fareeda hadn’t noticed a change in her. Lately, she performed all her responsibilities—soaking the rice, roasting the meats, bathing her daughters, brewing Fareeda her maramiya chai twice daily—in a rush, desperate for a moment alone. Most days, she read by the window in the girls’ room, the sun bright and warm against her face. She pulled the curtains open and leaned against the windowpane. The touch of each hardcover book sent