“Those destitute refugees from Iraq and Ethiopia you like to talk about with such feminist fervor—do you know what they do in Amman? They sell their daughters and sons. Honor is an expendable luxury when you have no means or shelter in this fucking world.” My legs began trembling, making it hard to stand still, and my voice shook now with suppressed tears. “We are not all blessed to receive a good education and inherit what it takes to live with some dignity. To exist on your own land, in the bosom of your family and your history. To know where you belong in the world and what you’re fighting for. To have some goddamn value.” I put my face closer to hers. I wanted her to taste my breath. “Some of us, Madam Honor, end up with little choice but to Fuck. For. Money.” My head spun behind my eyes. I thought I would faint.

Jumana began to cry, which both surprised and disgusted me. I had expected her to become defensive and lash out with that word: Whore! But she was guilt-ridden and ashamed. I swallowed the tears that welled in my throat, turned, and walked to the corridor, leaning against the wall to steady myself. Bilal lit my way and opened the bathroom floor above. He tried to speak, to pull me back, to console. But I was stone. I was heartbroken too, and I shoved him away. No one judged me more harshly than I judged myself.

I packed my bags. The belonging and acceptance I had found seemed an illusion. Palestine was my mother’s world. It belonged to Sitti Wasfiyeh’s stories. Palestine did not want me, nor I her any longer. I was again untethered and vulnerable, a stranger in a place that had felt like home. Needing an anchor and solid ground beneath my feet, I didn’t know what to do except go back to Amman. But I had to wait a few days more for the finalized divorce papers, time I spent with Hajjeh Um Mhammad—gardening, cooking, feeding the chickens, watching her favorite soap operas, praying, and talking. Bilal stayed away, returning late in the evenings.

Hajjeh Um Mhammad tried to convince me not to leave. “You made me love you, and now you’re leaving. Don’t do that to an old woman. This is your home,” she said. I wondered if she knew. If she would still want me if she did.

The divorce papers were completed in another two weeks. They were on the table one morning. Bilal had left a letter for me in the package.

Dearest Nahr,

I know there’s nothing I can say to convince you to stay, but I want nothing more. Palestine is your home, even if you choose not to live with us.