Page 100 - A Woman Is No Man

She had always imagined love as the kind she read about in books, like
the love Rumi and Hafiz described in their poems. Never once had motherly
love crossed her mind as her naseeb. Perhaps it was because of her

relationship with Mama, the sprinkles of love she’d fought so hard for and
found so lacking. Or perhaps it was because Isra had been raised to think
that love was something only a man could give her, like everything else.
Shame, she told herself. How selfish she had been to not appreciate
Allah’s goodness all along. To not trust in His plan. She was lucky. Lucky
to be a mother, and lucky—she reminded herself—to have a place to call
her own. Many families back home still lived in refugee camps, each shelter

barely two feet away from the next. But this basement was her home now.
Deya’s home. They were lucky.
As Isra placed her daughter in the crib, her heart swelled with hope. She
laid down her prayer rug and prayed two rak’ats thanking Allah for all he
had given her.