“It’s normal for it to hurt the first time,” she said, as I rummaged through the new clothes from my dowry. I didn’t dare tell her that I already knew about sex from the porn video.

“Should I wear the black one or the white one?” I asked her, holding up two negligees.

Her face reddened. “Whichever one you like most,” she said, and left the room.

We were married by an imam, our marriage certificate witnessed by my uncle and by Jamil, Mhammad’s dearest friend in Kuwait. Mhammad smiled and squeezed my hand.

It’s hard to remember suppressed disappointment, especially when I didn’t acknowledge it at the time, not even to myself. I had always dreamed of a wedding, hundreds of eyes upon me with love or envy, or maybe lust. But there was none of that. Just a muted celebration, a small gathering, some cake, and a cute dress—this event a placeholder for the grand wedding I believed was still to come. Or maybe I just pretended I did.

In hindsight I see that Tamara’s ghost was there all along. The first time I heard the name was on our wedding night. Our families delivered us to the threshold of our new apartment, their faces fixed in the kind of nervous happiness that comes with anticipating some profound transformation of one’s child. His aunt and family and my family showered us with hugs and congratulations. Before they left, Mama hugged me one more time, whispering in my ear,

“A thousand congratulations, my love. May God protect and guide you always. And remember what I said.”

Alone in our beautifully furnished new apartment, I had expected—hoped—he would push me against the wall with passionate kisses, his hands hungrily finding their way up my thighs, the way I’d seen in the illicit movie. Instead, we turned to each other, smiling awkwardly. I asked if he’d like me to make us a drink, and he nodded. As we sipped tea on our new sofa, he pulled me to him.

“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,” he said.

It startled me that he would say such a thing. I immediately blamed myself for being too demure. I look back now on so many moments in my life when I instinctively took responsibility for the actions and feelings of those around me.

“Oh, but I want to,” I said. “Wait one moment.” I got up and went into the bedroom, where I had already unpacked my clothes days before, opened my special drawer of “marital wear,” and chose the white negligee, because I had read in a magazine that men preferred women who were both pure and sexy. I freshened my makeup, admired the full glory of my womanhood in the mirror, and was ready. Fire ignited my body as I ran my hands along the curves from my breasts to my hips. A sinful smile crossed my face as I emerged to stand before him, ready to be devoured by my husband, who would surely be overcome by his great fortune to have such a beautiful bride.