I knew my mother-in-law only through the telephone, and would meet her for the first time now as I came seeking a divorce. She was nearly blind and possessed the limitless generosity and kindness that often accompanies sightlessness, as if one’s love for the world increases as the ability to see it diminishes. I recalled the immediate affinity I had felt when we spoke years ago, and now I wished I had come to visit her sooner.

She wore a black embroidered thobe and black hijab in permanent mourning for her husband and, some would say, her eldest son, Mhammad, although he was still living. She had prepared msakhan for my arrival. I didn’t know if she knew or if it was a coincidence that she had made my favorite dish. I could smell it when Bilal and I walked into their home, a modest stone structure nestled on the side of a hill in the unplanned, organic style of Palestinian villages, its floors tiled in beautiful granite from nearby quarries in el-Khalil. Their home was accessed only by a narrow, winding footpath, over which Bilal had carried my large bag, and I had struggled to walk in my heels.

“Bilal, may God bestow His favor on him, slaughtered a couple of our chickens and prepared the meal himself. I just watched over it while it baked,” she said.

I hid my surprise. This was the second time in one week that men had cooked for me. “Bless both of your hands that made this delicious meal. You humble me with your kindness,” I said.

“You are one of us, even though you are here to separate from us,” Bilal said kindly.

I looked down, unsure how to respond.

Bilal continued, “We cannot truly know what Mhammad put you through. But we know enough to be ashamed and sorry for how he treated you.”

Mention of Mhammad’s name clearly wounded Hajjeh Um Mhammad. “May God help him find the path of light wherever he is,” she said.

The phone rang. “Probably the neighbors checking up,” Hajjeh

Um Mhammad said.

“Don’t answer, Yumma,” Bilal pleaded. “Let’s have our time with Yaqoot before the busybodies swoop down.”

“You must answer. And don’t refer to our family and friends as busybodies.”

Bilal smiled good-naturedly. “Ha’ek alay, Yumma,” he said, kissing his mother’s hand.

I waited to gather the courage to correct Bilal and finally spoke after a few bites of food. “You can call me Nahr,” I reminded him. “Yaqoot is only on my official documents.” I didn’t mention that I was named after my father’s mistress.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” he said, embarrassed. “It’s just that Yaqoot is such a beautiful name too—but I will not make that mistake again.”