Page 144 - A Woman Is No Man

where was she now? More miserable than ever. She reached for the drawer
and pulled it open. One by one, she placed Adam’s socks and underwear on
the floor beside her. Underneath was a folded blanket, which she removed

as well, and beneath it lay several stacks of hundred-dollar bills, two packs
of Marlboro cigarettes, a half-empty black-and-white composition
notebook, three pens, and five pocket lighters. Isra sighed in disgust—what
had she expected? Gold and rubies? Love letters to another woman? She
placed everything back where it was, shoved the drawer shut, and returned
to the bed.
Sprawled across her prayer rug, she couldn’t stop thinking. Why hadn’t

Allah given her a son? Why was her naseeb so terrible? Surely she had
done something wrong. That must be why Adam couldn’t love her. She
could tell from the way he touched her at night, huffing and puffing,
looking at anything but her. She knew she could never please him. His
appetite was fierce, aggressive, and she could never seem to quench it. And
worse, not only had she deprived him of a son, but she had given him three

daughters instead. She didn’t deserve his love. She wasn’t worthy.
She reached under the mattress, grazed her fingers against A Thousand
and One Nights. It had been years since she had looked at its beautiful
pages. She pulled it out and opened it wide. It was full of pictures:
glimmering lights, flying carpets, grand architecture, jewels, magic lamps.
She felt sick. How foolish she had been to believe that such a life was real.
How foolish she had been to think she would find love. She slammed the

book shut and threw it across the room. Then she folded up her prayer rug
and put it away. She knew she should pray, but she had nothing to say to
God.

That night, after putting her daughters to bed, Isra retreated to the basement
window. She cracked it open, cold air slapping her in the face for a few
moments, before she slammed it shut again. She wrapped her arms around
her knees and began to weep.

The next thing she knew, she was on her feet, darting to the bedroom.
She pulled open Adam’s drawer, grabbed the composition notebook and
pen, and returned to the windowsill, where she ripped out a few empty
pages from the back and began to write.

Dear Mama,