My mother had been slaving away all afternoon preparing the menu for tonight’s dinner. Given the immaculate array of fancy copperware filled with vegetarian and non-veg curries, spiced lentils, aromatic saffron rice, soft oven-baked flatbreads, a side of cucumber yogurt, and a variety of pickles and vegetables, the dining table looked as if it were set for the prime minister of India himself. My parents were dressed in their traditional best on either side of me, while I was conveniently seated directly across the table from my potential husband. Next to him were his parents, the Rehmans, along with Mr. and Mrs. Dhakkar, longtime acquaintances of my parents who were the ones responsible for this awkward matchmaking. While I carefully nudged a neat pile of pilaf from one side of my plate to the other, I wondered if I was the only one who thought it was strange to be on a first date with my parents and four of their friends.

I pondered the incommodiousness of my situation during Anwar’s monotonous description of the “fascinating” ins and outs of being a chief medical resident at the sixth-largest hospital in the state. As the sound of his voice gradually faded into a dull drone, I found myself carefully examining his physical features—in between lowered gazes, of course. His dark eyes were deeply set behind thick square-rimmed glasses, and framed beneath broad, unkempt eyebrows. His wide, rectangular forehead was starkly accentuated by the horizontal sweep of his wavy black hair. I noticed his long hooked nose, tanned skin, narrow lips, and receding chin —A clear indication of a nonassertive personality, I thought. Although he was not entirely unattractive, his stiff demeanor visibly lacked the natural charisma to which I was typically drawn. As I watched him nervously adjust the starched collar of his peach-colored button-down shirt, I mentally crossed #46: SEXY off my list.

I must have gotten lost in my thoughts because the next thing I knew, my mother was clearing the table while my father was carrying in a large platter of creamy rice pudding topped with golden raisins and chopped pistachios and almonds. I leaned over to pour myself a bowl of kheer—my all-time favorite dessert—thinking that this evening might have a silver lining after all. That is, until my father tapped me on the arm and said, “Leila, beti, why don’t you take Anwar into your room so you two can chat for a bit.”

I stared with my mouth open. This was the same man who had refused to let me date, attend school dances, or receive phone calls from all members of the opposite gender until the age of eighteen; my ears were having a difficult time processing the words that were actually being spoken. The only explanation for why my father would ever ask his only daughter to escort a man—whom she had just met only two hours earlier—into the privacy of her bedroom so they could “chat” was that my mother’s absurd logic had finally rubbed off on him. I remembered countless teenage arguments with my mother over why it was haram to wear tank tops during the uncomfortably hot west coast summers, yet entirely halal to attend public cultural functions in form-fitting saris that exposed my entire midriff through the thin chiffon fabrics. And though I had grown accustomed to her irrational ways over the years, my father had always been the one person I could rely on to keep things sane. Until now.