Less Than Perfect

{8} Lover's Quarrel

Kanza Hadad

"Kanza, sweetheart, you know you have to settle down eventually?" sighed my mother, sipping a cup of tea in front of her. 

My father sat beside her, scowling. "She doesn't need to be married now," he tried to argue.

My mother's eyes were sharp, glaring at her husband. "Nonsense," she scoffed as she placed the cup down. "Many young women her age are settling into family life, and it would only be natural for our daughter to follow the same path."

"Does she have to follow their paths?" sighed my father, stroking the stubble on his chin, eyes dark with ambivalence. "She's made a life for herself here. It's not right of us to intrude, dear."

This conversation had been going for over an hour now, and I idly sat across from them blinking into space, mind far away from their discussion. My parents decided to make the long drive to visit me today, especially after my mother heard about my lack of unpacking. My eyes trailed to the pile of cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other against an abandoned corner of my living room. 

I didn't even have much furniture. The emptiness of my new home mirrored the hole in my heart, the void left for eternity, a dark pit of gloom that never sprouted into a seedling. The light never crossed the darkness that resided within, nor did it mask the lingering pain after so many years. The ache in my chest merely dulled into a numbing strife, a wound too tender to be healed as if at any moment my chest would split in half.

My parents' voices echoed in my head, but I was far too gone. My thoughts overwhelmed me as my mother's words resonated within, a frequency of my failed timeline. I knew she didn't mean it to offend me, and her request didn't hurt like I expected. 

If anything, I was disappointed in myself. 

It'd been years since he died, since I lost the man I wished to spend the rest of my life with. I'd lost him to a hate crime, to the evil intentions of human nature, the destructive result of misinformation being spread about Muslims. That alone was a trauma too difficult to bear. 

I used to be on that path of marriage, had dreams of a flowing gown whisking behind me and the laughter that would circulate the room, the bright, blinding smiles, and my heart would feel whole like two pieces of a broken stone, destiny engraved for the rest of our lives, our rings a testament to our future. 

Yet none of that ever happened. In fact, I never even got to the ring stage. We were engaged, and right before he could give me a ring, he was killed. 

"Kanza?" asked my mother softly, pulling me away from the past. 

I gave her a weary smile. "Sorry, Mama. I got a bit distracted."

Her warm hand was placed over mine, her eyes a comforting shade of brown, warmth radiating off her in waves, our mother-daughter bond shining through her gaze. My heart felt at ease, and for a moment, I swore the darkness vanished as I stared at our hands. 

My mother may have spent hours yelling at me as a child, spent her every waking hour chasing after my brothers and I, but there was never a doubt that my mother loved us, that she would sacrifice everything to keep us safe and under her guidance did we learn to value Islam and our principles. Under loving gaze did we find comfort through every trial of our life. 

When it seemed like we would lose our paths or diverge from our faith, she managed to drag us back. Even when we resisted, she fought against the barriers with her own swords and cut through our reluctance until she saw the light in our eyes again, until she saw the same childhood innocence from the day we were born.