Bilal made a large breakfast of shakshouka, mhammara, labneh, and cucumber along with other mezze that morning. “May God bless you for all your days, my son, and may He send you a kind and beautiful bride,” Hajjeh Um Mhammad said. I had to pretend everything was normal in front of her, but I didn’t speak much to Bilal.

I packed. Then unpacked. Packed again and kept a few things in the suitcase. But I stayed and went through our routines together. Going to the store, working, cooking, cleaning, driving, walking in the countryside. At night I read through my texts. There was little there, actually. I had responded to the girl that I was not in Amman, nothing more. If Bilal knew about my past, he did not let on. To the contrary, he was especially attentive and contrite.

Wednesday rolled around, the day Bilal typically spent with Jandal and his flock. “What are your plans today?” he asked as we left the house.

“I’m going to get my hair blown out at the salon, then heading back to roll dawali with your mother and some of your cousins. I also have that ridiculous appointment with the marriage counselor at the courthouse.” Not looking at him, I complained angrily: “I haven’t seen my husband in years. I don’t know where he is. I want to divorce the shit. He agrees and has given his brother power of attorney. But I still have to sit through counseling to save my marriage! By myself!”

“It’s definitely ridiculous. But I’m glad it takes so long, because it means we get to have you with us longer,” Bilal said.

Bilal the Charmer.

“By the way, Mhammad sent word asking about the divorce. It was a few days ago. He called again yesterday. I forgot to tell you.”

“He called you?”

“No. We don’t speak, as you know. A mutual acquaintance.”

“My brother?” I asked.

He turned to me slowly, stared into my eyes, then looked away.

“Yes,” he said. “What should I tell him?”

“Well, divorce is the reason I came,” I said.

He hesitated and with some difficulty said, “Please wait a little longer… . I would just like you to stay.”

I wanted to leave, and I wanted to stay. “We can talk later. I’m late for my hair appointment,” I said, walking away.

Bilal had described the woman who had spied on me, and she was at the hair salon when I arrived. I immediately turned to walk out as she approached me.

“Wait! Please. Can we talk? I’m sorry.”

Her name was Jumana. I remembered her. She had seemed smart to me, speaking about Arab feminists and such topics I could not converse in, which, of course, made me dislike her. I’d thought she was another customer, but it turned out she was the owner of the salon. And she was, she said, “with Bilal.”