and then follows where I’m pointing to their photo on the wall.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“I was putting my shoes on, and I guess it hit me how random that photo is. Most people put up formal wedding shots, and you guys put the most ridiculous possible one on the wall. . . .” My voice trails off, and I glance at my mother. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about that right now, I guess . . .”
“I forgot that photo was up there.”
I wonder if she’ll reach over and yank it down. But she doesn’t. She’s looking at it quietly.
“I’m not an extrovert,” my mother finally says. “And between the guest list for both sides, we had over five hundred attendees. You know the term stage fright? Your father and I were seated on a stage, and I panicked and completely froze. Your dad said he knew how to help me get comfortable and asked me if I would trust him. At the cake cutting time, your father took a piece of cake and smooshed my bite on my nose. And, well, my defense mechanisms kicked in, and I smashed a whole slice in his face.” She shook her head. “We couldn’t stop laughing. Your grandparents were mortified.”
“And you put that photo on the wall.”
“We have a ton of stuffy wedding photos.” She smiles a little. “But this one was my favorite. The unscripted part of the wedding, just about us. It made me the happiest.”
“You guys met in college, right?”
“My sophomore year. His freshman year.” She nods. “He asked if he could study at my table because the tables were all full at the library.”
“Likely story.”
“It worked.” She smiles.
“So, it was love at first sight?”
“No.” She wrinkles her nose. “You know your dad, he’s such a chatterbox. But we were friends for a long time.”
“When did things change?”
“I’m not sure. It wasn’t one moment in particular. A movie here, a meal there . . . and then before you know it . . .”
She’s talking about my dad and smiling wistfully. This was the thread I needed to follow—trailing back to their past, to help them remember how it all began. To realize they can get back there again.
“What kind of restaurants did you like to go to on your dates?” Even if they don’t have the exact same restaurant in Atlanta, I could figure out something equivalent and come up with a way to get them there—so they can stop “reflecting” and finally talk.
“We didn’t really date. We hung out.”
“Hanging out is dating, Mom.”
“Most of the time we went out with friends.”
“Group dating.”
“I guess you could call it that,” she says reluctantly. “I didn’t see it that way.”
“Why not?”
“Because we were keeping it halal.” She eyes me. “You know, Maya, intimacy is for after marriage.”
“TMI!” I fling my hands up. “I was just asking what your favorite restaurant was.”
“I’m only saying,” she presses. “Kissing and all the rest—those are sacred moments between a husband and wife. And since we’re on the topic. It’s one thing to date just to date, and another to pursue a relationship because you’re seriously thinking of marriage.”
I’ve heard this refrain since middle school. I get what she’s saying, but . . .
“So, you have to want to marry the person in order to date?” I ask. “That’s a lot of pressure when you’re just getting to know the person.”
“It’s not that you have to marry them, but you should be thinking along those lines.” She hesitates. “And that’s why I’ve told you it’s not a good idea to get into a relationship with anyone until you’re in college. There’s too much going on in high school to add one more thing to your plate.”
“Isn’t there plenty on people’s plates in college too?”
She studies me for a second.
“Are you thinking about dating?”
“Me?” I stare at her.
She looks at me expectantly.
“How did this become about me? I was asking about your favorite restaurants to see if maybe you and Dad might want to have a talk at some point. Maybe go out for dinner—just to connect? You’ve been focusing and reflecting for weeks. A talk might be nice.”
Way to show all your cards, Maya. I sigh.
“Oh, honey,” she says. “We are talking.”
“I never see you talk.”
“We talk every week, during our therapy sessions.”
Therapy sessions?
“And we meet with Imam Jackson weekly too. I hate that our issues have to affect you like this. We both hate it. So much.”