.

was nervous,” Isra muttered, hoping Yacob wouldn’t punish her. “It was an accident.”

      “Sure it was.” Mama unwrapped the thobe from around her thin frame. “Like the time you put salt in Umm Ali’s chai because she said you were as thin as a lamppost.”

      “That was an accident, too.”

      “You should be thankful their family isn’t as traditional as we are,” Mama said, “or you might’ve blown your chance of going to America.”

      Isra looked at her mother with wet eyes. “What will happen to me in America?”

      Mama didn’t look up. She stood hunched over the cutting board dicing onions, garlic, and tomatoes, the main components of all their meals. As Isra inhaled the familiar scents, she wished Mama would hold her, whisper in her ear that everything would be okay, maybe even offer to sew her a few hijabs in case they didn’t make them in America. But Mama was silent.

      “Be thankful,” Mama eventually said, tossing a handful of onions into a skillet. “God has presented you with a good opportunity. A good future in America. Better than this.” She waved her hands over the rusted countertops, the old barrel they used to heat water for bathing, the peeling vinyl floors. “Is this how you want to spend your life? Living with no heat in the winters, sleeping on a paper-thin mattress, barely enough food?”

      When Isra said nothing, staring at the sizzling skillet, Mama reached out and lifted her chin. “Do you know how many girls would kill to be in your shoes, to leave Palestine and move to America?”

      Isra dropped her gaze. She knew Mama was right, but she couldn’t picture a life in America. The trouble was, Isra didn’t feel she belonged in Palestine either, where people lived carefully, following tradition so they wouldn’t be shunned. Isra dreamed of bigger things—of not being forced to conform to conventions, of adventure, and most of all, of love. At night, after she had finished reading and tucked her book beneath her mattress, Isra would lay in bed and wonder what it would be like to fall in love, to be loved in return. She could imagine the man, even if she couldn’t see his face. He would build her a library with all her favorite stories and poetry. They would read by the window every night—Rumi, Hafez, and Gibran. She would tell him about her dreams, and he would listen. She would brew mint chai for him in the mornings and simmer homemade soups in the evenings. They would take walks in the mountains, hand in hand, and she would feel, for the first time in her life, worthy of another person’s love. Look at Isra and her husband, people would say. A love you only see in fairy tales.

      Isra cleared her throat. “But Mama, what about love?”

      Mama glared at her through the steam. “What about it?”

      “I’ve always wanted to fall in love.”

      “Fall in love? What are you saying? Did I raise a sharmouta?”

      “No . . . no . . .” Isra hesitated. “But what if the suitor and I don’t love each other?”

      “Love each other? What does love have to do with marriage? You think your father and I love each other?”

      Isra’s eyes shifted to the ground. “I thought you must, a little.”

      Mama sighed. “Soon you’ll learn that there’s no room for love in a woman’s life. There’s only one thing you’ll need, and that’s sabr, patience.”

      Isra tried to curb her disappointment. She chose her next words carefully. “Maybe life in America will be different for women.”

      Mama stared at her, flat and unblinking. “Different how?”

      “I don’t know,” Isra said, softening her voice so as not to upset her mother. “But maybe American culture isn’t as strict as ours. Maybe women are treated better.”

      “Better?” Mama mocked, shaking her head as she sautéed the vegetables. “You mean like in those fairy tales you read?”

      She could feel her face redden. “No, not like that.”

      “Like what, then?”

      Isra wanted to ask Mama if marriage in America was like her parents’ marriage, where the man determined everything in the family and beat his wife if she displeased him. Isra had been five years old the first time she’d witnessed Yacob hit Mama. It was over an undercooked piece of lamb. Isra could still remember the pleading look in Mama’s eyes, begging him to stop, Yacob’s sullen face as he struck her. A darkness had rumbled through Isra then, a new awareness of the world unfolding. A world where not only children were beaten but mothers, too. Looking in Mama’s eyes that night, watching her weep violently, Isra had felt an unforgettable rage.

      She considered her words again. “Do you think maybe women have more respect in America?”

      Mama fixed her with a glare. “Respect?”

      “Or maybe worth? I don’t know.”

      Mama set the stirring spoon down. “Listen to me, daughter. No matter how far away from Palestine you go, a woman will always be a woman. Here or there. Location will not change her naseeb, her destiny.”

      “But that’s not fair.”

      “You are too young to understand this now,” Mama said, “but you must always remember.” She lifted Isra’s chin. “There is nothing out there for a woman but her bayt wa dar, her house and home. Marriage, motherhood—that is a woman’s only worth.”

      Isra nodded, but inside she refused to accept. She pressed her palms against her thighs and shook her tears away. Mama was wrong, she told herself. Just because she had failed to find happiness with Yacob, that didn’t mean Isra would fail, too. She would love her husband in a way Mama hadn’t loved Yacob—she would strive to understand him, to please him—and surely in this way she would earn his love.

      Looking up, Isra realized that Mama’s hands were trembling. A few tears fell down her cheeks.

      “Are you crying, Mama?”

      “No, no.” She looked away. “These onions are strong.”

      It wasn’t until the Islamic marriage ceremony, one week later, that Isra saw the suitor again. His name was Adam Ra’ad. Adam’s eyes met hers only briefly as the cleric read from the Holy Qur’an, then again as they each uttered the word qubul, “I accept,” three times. The signing of the marriage contract was quick and simple, unlike the elaborate wedding party, which would be held after Isra received her immigrant visa. Isra overheard Yacob say it would only take a couple of weeks, since Adam was an American citizen.

      From the kitchen window, Isra could see Adam outside, smoking a cigarette. She studied her new husband as he paced up and down the pathway in front of their house, a half smile set across his face, his eyes squinting. From a slight distance, he looked to be about thirty, maybe a little older, the lines on his face beginning to set. A finely trimmed black mustache covered his upper lip. Isra imagined what it would be like to kiss him and could feel her cheeks flush. Adam, she thought. Adam and Isra. It had a nice ring to it.

      Adam wore a navy-blue shirt with buttons lined up the front and tan khakis, cuffed at his ankles. His shoes were shiny brown leather with tiny holes pricked in them and a solid black heel of good quality. His feet caressed the dirt with ease. She pictured a younger version of him, barefoot, kicking a soccer ball in the streets of Birzeit. It wasn’t hard to imagine. His feet balanced on the uneven dirt path as if he had been raised on land like this. How old had he been when he left Palestine? A child? A teenager? A man?

      “Why don’t you and Adam go sit in the balcony?” Yacob told Isra when Adam came back inside. Adam met her eyes and smiled, revealing a row of stained teeth. She looked away. “Go on now,” Yacob said. “You two need to get to know one another.”

      Isra flushed as she led the way to the balcony. Adam followed her, looking uneasily at the ground, both hands in his pockets. She wondered if he