I had no idea that the decision would soon be taken out of my hands.
That evening, I dressed carefully.
I chose a long, elegant dress and a matching hijab. My mother insisted that I wear a delicate veil over my face because, in our family’s tradition, the formal introduction was supposed to begin modestly.
I was grateful for it.
The veil felt like a shield.
As I descended the stairs, I could hear voices coming from the sitting room. My father was speaking with a man whose deep laugh carried through the hallway.
My mother hurried toward me.
“Stand straight,” she whispered, adjusting my sleeve. “And don’t look so nervous. This is a wonderful opportunity.”
I forced a smile.
Then she took my hand and led me into the room.
Zayd’s parents were seated on the sofa. His mother wore an elegant blue dress, and his father looked like a man accustomed to being listened to.
