Novels by leena mohamad

Three months later : The sun was warm against my skin as I lounged on the soft sand, the sound of gentle waves lapping at the shore. Our little girl was napping in the shade, and for the first time in months, Rami and I were completely at ease—no work, no responsibilities, just us. I watched as Rami walked toward me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I have a surprise for you," he said, his voice low and playful. "A surprise?" I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. He had been acting a little secretive all morning. "Close your eyes," he instructed, grinning. I laughed but obeyed, squeezing my eyes shut. I felt him place something small and cool in my palm. "Okay, open them." When I did, I found a small velvet box resting in my hand. My heart skipped—was this what I thought it was? But when I flipped it open, there was a polished key. I looked up at him, confused. "What’s this for?" His smile widened. "It’s the key to a treasure box." I blinked. "A… treasure box?" "Mmhmm.

It's 7 AM, and I'm still awake. My baby cried inconsolably throughout the night. I didn't know what was wrong with her. I fed her, changed her diaper, and put her in her crib, but she wouldn't settle down. Then she had a prolonged crying fit; I tried everything to soothe her—rocking, singing lullabies, even offering a pacifier—but nothing worked. Finally, as a last resort, I put on a YouTube video of children's colors, and she miraculously fell asleep watching it. Even after she finally drifted off, I couldn't rest. I tossed and turned, my mind racing. The worst part was replaying my conversation with my mother-in-law and her incredibly hurtful words: "It's just the nature of rich men like them." The casual cruelty of her statement stunned me. I couldn't believe she had endured such blatant disrespect and mistreatment for over thirty years. Part of me felt a deep sorrow for her, a sense of empathy for the pain she'd silently carried. However, that sorrow was quickly overshad

The afternoon sun was warm against my skin as I pushed the stroller along the beach, the sound of waves lapping at the shore a quiet comfort. My little girl cooed softly, her tiny fingers reaching toward the sky as if trying to catch the breeze. For a moment, everything felt peaceful—until my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, my stomach tightening as I read the message. "I’m coming to take you and the baby to the doctor for her vaccine. Be ready." My mother-in-law’s words left no room for argument. I didn’t want to go with her—I didn’t want her hovering over me, dictating every little thing—but I knew better than to refuse. By the time she arrived, I had already buckled the baby into her car seat, my movements stiff with forced obedience. The moment we got in the car, she started talking—no, lecturing—about infant diseases, how to prevent them, what symptoms to watch for. Her voice filled the space, leaving no air for me to breathe. I stayed quiet, staring out the wind

I woke up to an empty bed, the space beside me cold and untouched. Rami wasn’t home—again. But for once, I didn’t care. I didn’t want to see him. The heaviness in my chest wasn’t sadness this time, just exhaustion. My hand instinctively rested on my belly, the gentle curve of my baby girl reminding me of what truly mattered. She was my focus now—we were my focus. No more waiting, no more begging for scraps of attention. If Rami wanted to disappear, let him. I stretched slowly, savoring the quiet. No arguments, no tension—just peace. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I could breathe. Today wasn’t about him. Today was about us and that was enough.Two days. Two whole days, and Rami hadn’t come home. And you know what? I didn’t care. Not enough to call, not enough to ask. When he finally walked through the door, I didn’t even glance his way. He lingered around, pretending like everything was normal, until two hours later, he finally decided to speak. "How’s the baby

The baby coos softly in my arms, her tiny fingers curling around mine. She’s so perfect—her dark eyes wide and curious, her lips puckered in a little pout. What will we call you, habibti? Across from me, Rami' mother beams, reaching over to stroke the baby’s cheek. "Look at her smile! She’s a Farah, through and through."My grip tightens just a little. Farah. The name hangs in the air like an expectation. "I was thinking… maybe Sora,"I say carefully. "Or Asmaa." Rami's mother waves a hand dismissively. "Sora is nice, but Farah is personal. It was my mother’s name—bless her soul—and it would mean so much to us to carry it on."I swallow hard. Of course. Always family. Always tradition. "I just… I want her to have her own special name," I murmur, tracing the baby’s delicate eyebrows. "Something that represents her."Rami's mother sighs, shaking her head like I’m being sentimental. "Habibti, names are gifts. Farah means joy—and look at her! She’s already filling this house with it.

The hospital room feels too bright, too sterile, as I gather the last of my things. My body still aches, a dull throb reminding me of what I’ve just been through. But that’s not what’s twisting inside me. It’s him. Rami. Standing there, clueless as ever, flashing that easy smile like nothing’s wrong. “You ready to go, Habibti?” he asks, reaching for my bag. I tighten my grip on it and brush past him without a word. Let him wonder. Let him think I’m just some hormonal mess, exhausted from giving birth. If he were paying attention at all, he’d know this isn’t about fatigue. His mother swoops in with her usual efficiency, cooing over the baby in my arms. “Mashallah, what a beautiful baby” she murmurs, her fingers brushing her tiny cheek. Then, to me, in that tone that’s half sweetness, half command: “Don’t worry, Dema, I’ll stay with you for a few days. You’ll need help.” I force a tight smile. I don’t want her there. Not now. Not when every glance at Rami makes my chest burn. B