Jehad got up and left the house, ignoring Mama’s pleas, and I knew that whatever was stirring inside him, it had to do with Palestine. I suspected he knew more about Bilal and resistance activities there than he was letting on.

“Let him go,” Sitti Wasfiyeh told her, and mumbled prayers for his safety, peace of mind, and blessed future with a wife and family of his own. Amen.

“Mama, you have to lay off Jehad. He’s not interested in going back to school. He’s content in his job and earns a decent living. You have to stop nagging him about studying, working, and marriage and kids and whatever. All he hears is your disappointment,” I said.

“How do you know what he hears? Did he tell you?”

“No, Mama. He didn’t tell me. I know because that’s all I hear when you nag me every day about my life and what a failure you think I am.”

“I never said that!” she protested, then began to cry when I walked away into the kitchen. She followed me there. “Why does everybody walk away from me when I say something is wrong with this family? What’s wrong with wanting more for my children?”

Mama took me by the arm. “Never mind your brother right now. There’s something I need to ask you.” She paused. “People heard things about you.”

I raised one eyebrow to her.

“They didn’t mention Um Buraq by name, but they said there was talk you spent a lot of time with an older Kuwaiti woman with a bad reputation,” she said.

“Who said that?”

“Your aunts,” she said.

“Of course it would come from those bitches,” I said. “While you were away, Latifa hurried me out of her house before her husband came home, like she was afraid he’d see me there.”

Mama made a face like she was holding back a question.

“What?” I demanded.

“Well, I mean, I’ve always found that friendship odd,” she said.

“Um Buraq has been good to all of us!” I feigned outrage. “You know better than anyone how people love to talk about any and every woman who ends up without her husband.”

Mama recoiled, probably remembering the humiliating days after Baba died in another woman’s arms.

“Mama, Um Buraq is a good person. She doesn’t deserve what people say about her. And she has been a good friend to me.”

“I know, habibti. I’m sorry,” she said.

Without consulting me, Jehad had made arrangements for my divorce while he was in Palestine. “I spoke with Bilal about it. His brother agreed to give him power of attorney to execute the divorce on his behalf,” Jehad told me. “But you have to do it, Nahr. Mama is right about this. You can’t stay tied to that man.”