Yulia pursed her lips in an air kiss. “Thanks, my love.”

I yanked open Yulia’s closet, grumbling to myself and pushing through the piles of clothing. It took me a few minutes to realize how much trouble I was having wading through it, shoving aside stray sweaters and scarves like they were clumps of tangled seaweed complicating my treading through a current.

And then I realized nothing had been tossed out.

Usually when Yulia got tired, she’d clear things out. That meant it was over, that I could get rid of the Tupperware boxes of her special diet or move out the prayer books she had ended up collecting. But it was all still there.

Brother Khalid was still there, bustling about in what was previously my kitchen, clanging my pots, and asking anxiously if I would mind lamb for dinner.

Yulia wasn’t moving on.

It was weird, but for once, I wanted to go up to my mother and ask her if she knew how to sate this hunger in me: if something about the way she was kneeling and turning her fervent gaze to the carpet strewn over the grass could soothe me too, in a way that food never seemed to be able to reach.

I didn’t.

I just left the sweater on her bed and went back to my own room and curled my arms around my knees.

When had things reached this point?

The next weekend at Sunday school, Sabrena knew I was in a foul mood. I didn’t want to join in on the conversation like normal: asking whose relatives were having beef and whose engagement might be on the rocks. She separated from the rest of the cluster and put an arm around my shoulders.

“Whatever it is, it’s all right,” she soothed. “Really. Want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

But my stomach just felt hollow. I was both gnawingly empty and entirely without an appetite. We milled to the basement toward a makeshift prayer area used when the normal section overflowed, where some masjid aunties were already lined up next to each other—sock heel stretched out to meet sock heel—with arms crossed, devoutly murmuring supplications under their breath. My heart lurched when I saw a familiar scarf: navy blue with a blush flower print.

Yulia.

Should I try to nudge my way in next to her now, grab her aside, and confide all my turmoil to her? I could see a glimpse of her face, eyes closed, lips moving. She looked so peaceful.

Before I could move any farther, though, or follow Sabrena, a woman blocked my way.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing here?”