BooksBarbecue
Back Counting Down with You
Chapters (64)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Praise
  4. Booklist
  5. Dedication
  6. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  7. Part 1
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. Part 2
  28. 20
  29. 21
  30. 22
  31. 23
  32. 24
  33. 25
  34. 26
  35. 27
  36. 28
  37. 29
  38. 30
  39. 31
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. Part 3
  43. 34
  44. 35
  45. 36
  46. 37
  47. 38
  48. 39
  49. 40
  50. 41
  51. 42
  52. 43
  53. 44
  54. 45
  55. 46
  56. 47
  57. 48
  58. 49
  59. 50
  60. 51
  61. 52
  62. 53
  63. 54
  64. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There’s never a limit to what I’m willing to give.

All the years flash through my mind rapidly, and a horrible feeling rises in my chest, pushing up and up, battering against my rib cage and spreading through my lungs. It creeps up my throat, past the God-awful lump that I can’t get rid of, and through my veins.

Tears pool in my eyes and I suck in a deep breath, trying to hold them back, but they spill anyway, wet and hot, sliding down my cheeks.

I know everything that my parents have done for me. I know how much they sacrificed for me to be able to live in New York, to live in a house, to go to a good school. They uprooted their whole life so I could have these opportunities. I know all of that. I know they want me to do well in life.

But sometimes I wonder if they want me to do well for me, or if they want me to do well for them. If all my accomplishments are for their pleasure, rather than mine.

How can they justify everything I’ve had to go through? All the times they stripped my freedom from me? How could that have been for me?

It’s small things that become bigger and bigger. It’s the fact I’m terrified to wear shorts, because even flashing an ankle is dangerous in my household. It’s the fact Samir can be as loud and bold as he wants, and I’m expected to be quiet and compliant. It’s the fact that I can’t go anywhere without some kind of parental supervision and, if I do, I face being berated for hours and then locked away in my room to wither in silence.

It’s the fact that I’m expected to be this perfect daughter that I don’t know how to be.

It’s the fact that, for the first time in my life, I have freedom because they’re not here to watch over me, and it’s the best I’ve ever felt. It’s the fact that Ace smiles at me when he thinks I can’t see him, and pokes and prods at me, but is always thoughtful when I need him to be. It’s the fact that my friends want to go to junior prom, and a boy I like asked me to go with him, but I don’t know if I can. It’s the fact that I love English more than anything, but I can’t pursue it in college because I’m expected to become a doctor.

And for what? So they can gloat about it to their coworkers? To their friends? To the people at our mosque? To the rest of my extended family? Why do those people have more of a stake in what I do with my future than I do?