Written in the Stars

“Mehnaz, we’ve already settled this.” My father’s voice lowers.

“Why don’t you listen to me? Shaista said it is a very good proposal. He’s doing his residency. Proposals like this don’t come around every day. Naila would be taken care of for life. We should at least meet them.”

“Do you know how difficult it is to get into the six-year medical program? Imran struggles with basic algebra, but Naila? She’s brilliant. She’s worked too hard to get there. She can wait and get married later.”

I exhale. My father wanted to be a doctor once. I know he would never let my own dream go unfulfilled.

“Fine,” my mother says. “You’re probably right. I guess it’s a mother’s job to worry.”

The sofa shifts below, and then, footsteps. I leap to my feet and dash to my room. Grabbing the closest textbook to me, I fling myself on my bed.

“Naila?”

My mother steps inside and sits down on the wicker chair by my bed. She’s still wearing her blue salwar kamiz from the dinner party we went to-a long tunic with loose trousers and a scarf draped loosely around her shoulders. She normally wears her hair wrapped up in a bun, but looking at her now, the way it flows long and wavy past her shoulders, I see why people say I look just like her.

She glances around my bedroom and then closes her eyes for a moment. the pink textured wallpaper my father pasted up when I was born still looks new, as does the whitewashed furniture, despite a few scruffs and scratches from years ago. When she finally opens her eyes and looks at me, her eyes are wet.

“I can’t begin to tell you how much I’m going to miss you.”

“Ami.” I sit up and move closer to her. “I’m not going far away.”

“But, Naila”-she leans closer to me-“don’t forget everything we’ve talked about. You’re a beautiful girl, and there will be many who will like you.”

“Not this again,” I mumble. I try pulling away, but her hands grip my wrists.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s true,” my mother tells me. “Remember, just because you go away to college doesn’t mean the promises you’ve made no longer apply. You can choose many things,” she continues. “You can choose what you want to be when you grow up, the types of shoes you want to buy, how long you want your hair to be. But your husband, that’s different. We choose your husband for you. You understand that, right?”

I’ve heard this more times than I can count. The first time we had this conversation was seven years ago, when i was ten. “What if I find him first?” I asked then.

“That’s not how it’s done,” she had said. “Just because we live in a different place doesn’t change how things should be.”

“But didn’t you want to talk to Abu? Didn’t you feel afraid?”

“My parents knew it was a good match, and they were right. You’ve seen others, your third cousin Roohi, who chose not to listen. Look at her now, divorced with young children, Her parents can’t even leave their home without hanging their heads in shame. Who wants to marry her now? A life of loneliness is an awful punishment for one bad decision. We don’t want that for you. Trust us. Promise you won’t disappoint us.”

I watch my mother now. She twists her shawl with her fingers. I hate keeping secrets from her. But how can I explain that I see the world a little differently and my way of looking at the world isn’t bad, not if it means their daughter has found someone she loves, someone who makes her completely and unbelievably happy?

I want to tell her all of this. But I know I can’t. At least not yet.

“Ami.” I look at her, giving her the reassurance she came for. “Trust me, I won’t disappoint you.”