And I understood: I should not tell George what had happened. I could read my mother’s thoughts as though a bubble had formed above her head to dictate them to me.

Several days later, once the shock of the doctor’s diagnosis had settled in, she explained it to me. “Habibti, George is the only son in his family—he has four sisters. His parents will definitely want him to have many children so he can carry on the family name.” She had pulled a chair up next to my bed, and sat beside me, mindlessly rubbing my fingernails with the pads of her own fingers.

“I see.”

“They will not accept it if they know that you might have trouble having children. And that will put George in a very bad situation.” “So should I tell him?” “I don’t know.”

“He doesn’t care about that kind of thing, Mama. He always said he would like to adopt other kids someday. He worked in the camps, remember? He has a big heart. Plus,” I reminded her, “he was the one who caused the accident. Even Hanan and John said it—he wasn’t paying attention. He missed the stop sign.”

Mama was choosing her words carefully, I could tell. “Maybe George would not care, but his parents will care. They will want a child who is their own blood, of their own genes. And they will force George—pull him away from you.”

“We don’t even know them, Mama.” I knew she was right, but I was trying to think of as many logical arguments as I could.

“We don’t have to know them, habibti. They are an Arab family, with only one son, who have put all their savings to send him to medical school in America. Do you think they will accept for him to marry and not have children?”

Part of me raged against her words, and against her. It seemed for some reason that she was more concerned about George’s happiness than mine.

“Sometimes we have to put our happiness aside for the sake of the ones we love.” She said it simply, directly, looking right in my eyes, and I suddenly began weeping wildly—hating myself for ever doubting her and hating George for putting me in this position in the first place.

Idid not return to work for six months, and even then Brookes allowed me to work mostly from home, going to the office just twice a week. On my first day back, they threw me a surprise party. My desk was decorated with pink and purple streamers, and silver-colored balloons had been tied to the back of my chair. My co-workers stood around my desk, clapping as I walked in, leaning heavily on my cane.

I only stayed a few hours that day, and left shortly after noon because I quickly became more tired than I thought I would. My boss nodded when I told him I wasn’t feeling well, then rang for the tech people. “We need a laptop asap for one of our employees,” he said crisply into the phone. “They’ll be here in half an hour,” he said as he hung up. “Stay until then.”