“What rubbish,” my mother muttered under her breath as we walked out to the parking lot. “No match.” She sneered angrily. “Don’t listen to that nonsense, Leila. Who is she to tell me my daughter won’t marry? Of course you will marry. You are my daughter, after all! That woman has no idea what she is talking about. What kind of matchmaker says marriage is not for everyone?” She shook her head in disbelief.

I was too shocked to respond. How was it possible that a professional matchmaker—with a drawer full of potentials—could not find a match for me? Was what I wanted really so radical? So impossible? I never anticipated this.

As I listened to my mother repeatedly vow to never recommend Seema the matchmaker to anyone and harshly question the judgment of Rubina aunty, Mariam, her friend with the boy-cut hair, her mother, and Dr. Fareedah the dentist during the entire drive home, I leaned my head against the window and stared out at the trees sliding past the glass.

What if Seema aunty was right? What if I was unmatchable? Would that really be such a terrible thing? It wasn’t like I’d had much success with the prospects I had been “matched” with these past few months. If Seema aunty had no one in her drawer who shared the same values as me, perhaps it was better to end up alone. I had been alone before. And I was perfectly fine with it . . . But maybe I was fine with it because I used to think my aloneness was an outcome of my choice. What if it isn’t a choice at all? What if it’s because there’s no one out there for me? What if Mr. Perfect doesn’t even exist? This realization suddenly made my situation seem a lot more tragic.

If it was up to me, my timeline wouldn’t be as rigid as my parents’, but even so, I did eventually want to get married. I never planned to end up alone. Forever. I was just waiting for the right guy. But if there was no right guy, did that really mean that I wouldn’t get married? Did that mean that I couldn’t?

I closed my eyes, trying to quiet my doubts.

I had been taught all my life that marriage was half my deen, so how was I supposed to believe that my life would still be complete or meaningful if I didn’t have a husband to share it with? I suddenly felt very lost.

We stopped at a red light, and I looked out at the patches of wild dandelions scattered along the side of the road. Thickets of weeds the color of sunshine.

Seema aunty was wrong.

The one consistent element in every Bollywood film was that it ended with a marriage. Girl meets boy. Girl falls in love with boy. Girl and boy fight off band of criminals, disapproving in-laws, jealous ex-lovers. Girl and boy get married. Le fin. This was the only ending I knew. So my story had to end the same way. Right? Maybe my views of marriage were a bit nontraditional, but I still deserved the same outcome as every heroine on the screen. A perfect guy and a perfect wardrobe. I wasn’t going to let Seema aunty snatch my happily ever after from me by making me feel like my wants were too extreme. I was my mother’s daughter, after all! I just needed to keep looking. I needed to find my perfect match and prove Seema aunty wrong. The other “half of my deen” did exist. He had to, because I was matchable—to whom was yet to be known, but I was more determined than ever to find him on my own.