From the window, Anisa watched her mother-in-law and sister-in-law load their suitcases into a taxi. The sister stood by the car door, throwing a final, venomous glare,and likely a curse,towards the house. Anisa didn't hear it. Their departure brought an immediate, profound sense of relief, a silent exhale that seemed to empty the very air of its tension.
For a moment, she wondered where they would go, what they would do. Then she stopped herself. Let them figure it out, she thought. It was no longer her burden. 😒
Outside, the last patches of snow were melting under a gentle sun, the light casting a golden glow on the remaining icy lacework. Anisa went to the kitchen, made herself a cup of coffee, and stood by the window, sipping it slowly, trying to let the quiet calm her still-racing mind.
As she gazed out, a memory surfaced, vivid and unbidden. It was from two years ago, a sweltering August afternoon. She and Zayan had gone to the park, dressed in their favorite colors—her in white, him in a deep navy blue. The sun was fierce, but they had ignored it, talking, laughing, simply walking together. She'd wanted an ice cream; he had gone to buy it for her, returning with her cone and, for himself, a packet of spicy instant noodles, a taste she never shared. He'd eaten it happily as they strolled. 🍧
It was something he had said then that came back to her now, with crystal clarity. He had looked at her, smiling playfully. "Why don't you have curly hair?" he'd asked. "When I was a kid, I always thought I'd marry a girl with curly hair."
At the time, she had just laughed it off, a silly, inconsequential comment in a perfect afternoon. They had spent the rest of the day in perfect harmony, returning home with their hearts full. 🙂
Now, the memory landed with a different, heavier weight. It was no longer a sweet anecdote; it was a piece of a puzzle, clicking into a cruel picture. Curly hair. The jeweler's description of Zahra. The sketches in the red portfolio.
Whatever it had been, it was a beautiful time, Anisa thought, taking another sip of coffee, her left hand unconsciously reaching up to touch her own straight, dark hair. The warmth of the memory was now forever tangled with the cold truth, a perfect moment retroactively stained by a secret she had been blissfully unaware of, a preference he had voiced lightly but perhaps lived out seriously in the shadows. 🙍