Then he walked out with his parents.
The front door closed.
And the silence that followed was worse than all the shouting.
My father left the room without saying another word.
My mother remained seated, crying quietly.
I wanted to go to her.
Every instinct I had developed during twenty-six years of being the obedient daughter told me to apologize, promise to change, and do whatever I could to restore peace.
But I was exhausted.
I had spent so many years trying to keep everyone comfortable that I no longer knew how to be honest without feeling guilty.
So I went upstairs.
I closed my bedroom door and stood in front of the mirror.
My hijab was still on the dresser. My veil lay crumpled beside it.
I looked at my reflection for a long time.
For years, I had thought of myself as two separate women.
Layla was the modest daughter, the girl who spoke softly and followed the rules.
