Ghassan called me at the salon. “Thanks to the Almighty our brother is coming home,” he said. “You should stop by the pastry shop this evening. Join us for dinner.”

It wasn’t so much an invitation as an urgent request, but our calls were monitored, and there was only so much we could say. “Yes, of course, brother. I’m sorry I’ve not been by sooner. Jumana and I will come straight there after closing the salon, enshallah.”

“See you soon. We want to hear about the wedding plans too. Everyone’s looking forward to the honor of celebrating the two of you,” he said, and we hung up.

My wedding was growing in local imagination, even though Bilal and I hadn’t yet actually spoken of it. For the first time since my girlhood in Kuwait, I fantasized about a life of my own making, a story Bilal and I would create on our own terms. I dared to imagine a forever with him. I dared, even, to wish for a child, a life born of love, to be loved hard and always.

I turned to Jumana. “You think Bilal knows of his own impending wedding?”

“He has probably been fantasizing about it from the day your divorce was finalized,” she said.

“He’s not like that.”

“All men are like that,” she said, reminding me of Um Buraq.

Ghassan’s sister was at the bakery when we arrived. She worked there less frequently since Ghassan had returned, because her incessant lectures were intolerable: he wasn’t pious enough; he should be married by now, should have kids; he didn’t associate with pious friends; why was he so stubborn. Worst of all was her disdain for Jumana.

We were surprised to see her, and she us.

“Welcome, ladies. Ghassan didn’t tell me we were having company,” she said. She eyed Jumana up and down, stopping at her hair. “Still not wearing a hijab, I see.”

I stepped forward, putting every nasty curse word into my stare. Ghassan appeared in the periphery, and I whispered, “Something is wrong with you,” before he came near to greet us.

She didn’t like him shaking Jumana’s hand and kissing her on each cheek, but she held her tongue as Ghassan congratulated us on Bilal’s triumph and on the wedding.

“Oh, Ghassan. This is the strangest wedding in the history of Palestine,” I said. “Bilal is going to be—”

“Did he even ask for your hand?” Ghassan’s sister interrupted.

Before I could sink my claws into her eyeballs, Ghassan snapped, “What are you still doing here? Your husband called you home half an hour ago. Go!”

As she walked away in a huff, Ghassan turned to us. “I was just making some fresh bread while dinner gets here. I sent for a few mashawi and mezze plates,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have troubled yourself,” Jumana said.

He smiled at her, repeating an old saying: “For the ones we love, nothing is ever trouble, and everything is never enough.”