For twenty-six years, everyone in my life believed they knew exactly who I was.

I was Layla Al-Masri, the quiet daughter who never argued with her parents, the young woman who dressed modestly, wore her hijab with pride, and lowered her eyes whenever an unfamiliar man spoke to her.

At family gatherings, my relatives praised me as if I were the standard every young woman should follow.

“Look at Layla,” my aunt would say to her daughters. “You should learn something from her.”

My mother, Samira, was especially proud of me.

“My daughter has never even been involved with a man,” she would announce whenever marriage came up. “She has protected her reputation and saved herself for the husband Allah has written for her.”

Every time she said those words, I felt something twist painfully inside my chest.

I would smile politely, lower my eyes, and remain silent.

Nobody knew that the daughter my mother described so proudly was only one part of me.