For Rania, that moment was preserved like an insect caught in amber. But most of her memories were blurry—or trivial—like her distinct recollection of the slurping noise Hashim made while eating fried eggs. Theirs had been a traditional union, matchmade by their parents, but it was far from the barbaric arrangement her fellow students at college in Britain slyly questioned her about. They imagined Iraqi girls like Rania were sold off in chains to old, ugly strangers, when in fact that was far from the truth.

Rania’s and Hashim’s families were old friends, and the two of them had played together as children, although that stopped once they neared puberty. The daughter of a sheikh, Rania had plenty of handsome, well-connected suitors, but she knew Hashim would treat her kindly, and, importantly, so would her future parents-in-law. When they got engaged, she didn’t love him in the romantic sense favored by Hollywood. Nor did she expect to. But she was confident that given time, she would grow to love her husband, just as her mother had, and her grandmother before her.

Rania and Hashim only had a few months to adjust to their new life together. They butted heads on occasion, but once the bedroom lights dimmed, they were always eager to make up. When Hashim was called up to fight in the war with Iran, Rania was six weeks pregnant. Five months later, she mourned his death. She grieved sincerely, as a wife should, struggling to accept that Hashim would never see his daughter. And Hanan would never know her father. But as the years passed, she began secretly to wonder, what would her life have been like if she had remained married?

Like Rania’s father, Hashim had been a traditional man. He would have demanded final say over all their important decisions. Would he have allowed her to move away from his family home and to open a gallery in Baghdad? That was unlikely. She’d tried many times to imagine her life if Hashim had lived, but she simply couldn’t picture the details, or how it would have flowed from morning to night, from breakfast to supper, year after year. Sometimes when she talked of her marriage, it felt like someone else’s story. She was just mouthing the words.

An old woman hobbled by with a roll of newspapers tucked under her arm. Rania wondered, How many widows felt the same? Were their memories as thin as hers? Charcoal sketches, a line here, a shadow there? Rania had resisted all offers to marry again and managed to build a good life for herself and her daughter. At least she had, until war and sanctions destroyed the flow of visitors to her art gallery.