During dinner, several friends and close acquaintances of my parents took turns saying a few words. Everyone agreed that thirty years of marriage was an extraordinary feat, an accomplishment worth celebrating. As each speaker lauded my parents with praises and countless blessings for the years to come, I felt proud. My parents were happy. They were still in love after thirty years of marriage. They had found the thing that people spend their entire lives searching for.

From inside my purse, I pulled out a single notecard. Wiping my sweaty palms on a napkin, I glanced at the speech I had prepared four days ago for this very event. So much had changed between then and now. As I quickly skimmed over the words, I realized there was still so much I wanted to say. To express. But how?

When Bushra aunty and Mohammed uncle finished the final words of their speech, I took a deep breath and stood up. My legs felt like jelly as I walked toward them. I prayed my knees would not buckle underneath me. There were collective murmurs among the audience as my parents’ only child took the microphone.

With the notecard clasped tightly in hand, I cleared my throat.

“As’salaamu Alaikum, everyone,” I said, my voice slightly cracking. “Thank you all so much for coming tonight to celebrate my parents’ thirtieth wedding anniversary.”

Everyone applauded enthusiastically. I drew in a deep breath.

“My parents have always been the embodiment of what a successful marriage looks like,” I read from my card. “They have taught me so much over the years about love, hard work, and compromise through their example. And I hope that I can one day follow in their footsteps . . .” My voice trailed off.

I looked out at all the familiar faces—a roomful of aunties and uncles smiling back at me, their expressions brimming with expectation. There were the Rehmans and the Dhakkars from that very first awkward dinner date. There was Seema aunty, the matchmaker, placing a sweet gulab jamun into her mouth, and Yasmeen aunty with her husband giving me a wave of encouragement. There were my father’s cricket buddies and my mother’s friends from her monthly halaqa classes at the mosque—they all stared at me, waiting expectantly to hear what I had to say.

I glanced down at the notecard with trembling hands and pounding heart. Tania’s words echoed through my mind: This is no longer about them, Leila . . . This is about you and what you want. It’s about doing what is right for you.

I took another deep breath, folded up the card, and began once more.

“Ammi, Abba,” I said, facing the center of the room, toward my parents. My mother, in a lovely blue sari, and my father, in a suit, smiled back at me, beaming with pride. “You’ve only ever wanted the best for me. And I may not have always understood your ways of showing me that, but I see it now. Marriage is a beautiful thing. It takes two separate people and unites them into one, and there is nothing more special than that. The proof is right before us.”