I leaned toward Hajjeh Um Mhammad’s face and kissed her forehead, her hands, her cheeks. Then I nestled my face by her ear, tears gathering behind my eyes, and whispered, “I will take care of Bilal. If it is God’s will, I will marry him.”

I felt her body relax, and I stayed there, allowing my tears to fall. I told her how much I loved her. How grateful I was for the kindness she had shown me. That her place in my heart was like that of my own mother.

Someone entered the room, but I didn’t look up, continuing to speak to Hajjeh Um Mhammad’s ear. But when her sisters asked, “Who are you?” I lifted my head and came face-to-face with a skinny woman wearing niqab. She pulled off the veil and lowered the abaya, and we could see she was a man. His hair was too long for a Palestinian from these parts. A goatee framed his mouth. He had a quality of illness. But there was no mistaking Mhammad’s face. Hajjeh Um Mhammad let out an audible cry, and her sisters jumped out of their seats to embrace him. I froze.

The sisters hushed and hurried to close the door, looking about to check whether anyone had seen him walk in. He kneeled by Hajjeh Um Mhammad’s bed, kissing her hand. Quiet tears ran down the faces of mother and son.

“May God look upon you with favor, my son,” Hajjeh Um Mhammad repeated. Her sisters too were crying. I stood in astonishment and confusion, almost forgetting that they could see me.

One of his aunts said to the other, “Such a brave son. He figured out how to sneak back into the country just to see his mama… .”

The other sister: “Here from Canada. I didn’t think we’d ever see the boy again. He’s very brave and resourceful. God give him long life, amen.”

Canada? They think he’s living in Canada?

“Hello, Nahr.” His voice sounded raspier than I remembered.

His eyes were red and distant. There had been a time in my life when I longed for this man to return to me, but that discarded girl was gone, and now he repulsed me.

I kissed Hajjeh Um Mhammad. “I’ll be back later to check on you,” I whispered. As I reached to open the door, Mhammad said behind me, “It goes without saying that no one can know I’m here.”

I suppressed the urge to slap him.

Hajjeh Um Mhammad demanded to go home the day Mhammad visited. He had stayed with her until early evening before donning his disguise and leaving. “I want to die in my own home,” she said. Her kidneys were producing very little urine, and doctors said it would not be long before other systems failed.

“While I can still talk, I demand to go home,” she said with as much force as her frail voice could muster.