But Juli was no student. At that point, when I was seventeen, she was thirty-seven. She was the wife of Aziz, my oldest cousin. I had heard she was a promotions manager for a multinational automotive company. Her busy life meant she often got home late and couldn’t attend our two types of major family gatherings: the arisan and Qur’anic recitations. I didn’t know her that well, but she struck up conversation with me several times. She was the only relative who seemed eager to hear about my plans to major in design. My parents wanted me to study economics and work at a bank. In contrast, Cousin Juli encouraged my enthusiasm for design, telling me about all sorts of work opportunities. When she spoke, she put her broad knowledge on display and passion twinkled in her eyes. She moved in such an animated way. I was smitten with the lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. Smitten with her manicured fingers.

I don’t know why Cousin Juli asked me about school so much. Perhaps she was staving off conversations with the older women. I know they peppered her with questions she didn’t like. Family gatherings were an ordeal for her.

‘Jul, when are you going to have another baby?’ asked Aunt Romlah, my mother’s older sister. ‘The clock is ticking.’

‘I’m still busy looking after Salwa,’ she replied politely.

‘Salwa’s in primary school now. What are you so busy with? Give her a little brother or sister, so she doesn’t get spoiled.’

‘Aziz and I both work.’

‘So quit, then. Aziz’s business is thriving. What more do you need? You don’t have to chase after money.’

Cousin Juli smiled. She did that whenever she didn’t want to answer a question. She bowed her head like a well-behaved teenager being interrogated by her parents for coming home late.