She envied the abundance her sisters had produced—sons and daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She’d once confided in me that she sometimes wondered if God was displeased with her for some offense she might have committed. Then she shooed away the thought, begged God’s pardon, and thanked Him for all she had and did not have. “One must always be grateful to God for one’s fate, alhamdulillah,” she had said.

I looked into Hajjeh Um Mhammad’s eyes, unsure what to say. She spoke again, and I understood perfectly. “He loves you. And I know you love him,” she said. How strange to be brought into this family as the wife of one brother, only to fall in love with the other and receive benediction from their mother to marry him after divorcing the first.

I did love Bilal, though those words seemed too small for his expansive presence in my heart. He saw me in the fullness of my shame and broken parts, and didn’t look away. Through his eyes, I saw and maybe became another version of myself—a thoughtful, powerful, intellectual woman who could love, be loved, affect the world, and maybe be touched again by a man.

“Your elders know best, daughter,” her sister whispered. “Bilal will honor you. Ease our sister’s heart before she dies, darling Nahr. You are the nearest she has to a daughter in her final days.”

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.