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Chapter 114, Surprising Date.
Last Updated:
2025-04-17 03:52:06
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Four months have passed, and the nursery is almost ready—soft yellow walls, tiny clothes folded neatly in the drawers, and a bassinet waiting for our little one. Rami and I sit on the couch, a baby name book spread across my lap. His arm is draped over my shoulder, his fingers absently tracing circles on my skin. "Malik is strong," he says, pointing at the name. "But Leen… that’s beautiful too." I smile, leaning into him. "We still have time to decide, besides, we don't know whether it's a boy or a girl." He sighs, shifting slightly. "Dema… I’ve been thinking." His voice is quieter now, serious. "I want to make more time for you. For the baby. I’ve been spending time at work too much during our marriage, and I stay out too late… that's going to change now." My chest tightens—hope, relief, disbelief all tangled together. "That’s… great news, Rami." He turns to me, eyes earnest. "I mean it. I promise—I’m going to be a good husband. A good father." The words are sweet, but I’
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The mall was buzzing with energy, the kind that usually overwhelmed me, but today, it felt different. Today, every pastel-colored onesie, every tiny pair of socks, every frilly little dress made my heart swell. I’m having a girl. The thought still sent shivers of joy down my spine. Dalia held up a miniature sunhat with a giggle. “Look at this! She’s going to be the most stylish baby in the city.” Tala, ever the practical one, nudged me toward a rack of soft cotton bodysuits. “You need basics too, habibti. She’ll live in these.” I ran my fingers over the tiny fabric, imagining my daughter—my daughter*—wearing them. It still didn’t feel real. After everything, after all the fear and uncertainty, here I was, surrounded by love, preparing for her. “We should start planning the baby shower,” Dalia said, already scrolling through her phone. “Think pink and gold? Or more floral?” I laughed, shaking my head. “As long as there’s good food, I don’t care.” Tala smirked. “Spoken like
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The car ride to the doctor’s office is quiet, but Rami’s fingers keep tapping against the steering wheel—a nervous habit. I glance at him, amused. "You’re more nervous than I am," I say, resting a hand on his arm. "Relax. It’s just a check-up." He exhales sharply, gripping the wheel tighter. "I know, I know. But I’ve never seen the baby before." I smile, squeezing his arm. "You’ll love it." When we get called in, Rami’s leg won’t stop bouncing as I lie back on the exam table. The doctor spreads the cold gel over my stomach, and Rami leans forward, eyes locked on the screen. Then—there it is. A tiny, flickering heartbeat. A little blur of limbs, curled up safe inside me. "Everything looks perfect," the doctor says, smiling. I was relieved. I was worried because I haven't been sleeping well lately so I thought it might affect the baby. But when I turn to Rami, his eyes are glistening. His lips press together, trembling, and then—tears. Actual tears rolling down his face.
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A sharp pain jolts me awake, my breath catching in my throat. I clutch my swollen belly, waiting—hoping—for it to fade. But then another one comes, tighter this time, and panic prickles under my skin. Is this it? I fumble for my phone, hands trembling as I dial Rami first. He answers on the third ring, voice thick with sleep. "Dema? What's wrong?" "I—I think it's happening," I whisper, my throat tight. I can almost hear him springing out of bed. "I'm coming right now. Call my mother." The next call is a blur—my mother-in-law's calm voice cutting through my fear, promising she'll be here soon. By the time I hang up, sweat beads at my temples. She arrives before Rami does, her steady hands guiding me to sit while she calls an ambulance. "Better safe than sorry," she murmurs, smoothing my hair back. The ride to the hospital is a haze of contractions and nervous breaths. Rami meets us there, his face pale, his grip crushing my fingers as the doctors check me. Then—the verdict
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I sigh, tossing my phone onto the couch beside me. Another dull afternoon trapped inside. The walls feel like they’re closing in on me, but what can I do? The doctor said no unnecessary outings, no stress—just rest. Rest. Like I haven’t been resting for months already. My fingers drum against my swollen belly, frustration simmering beneath my skin. I reach for the remote, flipping through channels mindlessly. Nothing holds my attention. Just stupid talk shows and reruns of dramas I’ve already seen. Then—I got a message. A message from Rola. I grab my phone, grateful for any distraction. It’s a video. Probably some gossip or event she’s at, rubbing it in that she’s out there living while I’m stuck here like a prisoner in my own home. I tap the screen, and the video loads. It’s some commercial event—flashy lights, cameras, people dressed to impress. And there he is. My Rami. My lips twitch into a small smile at first. He looks good, confident, charming the crowd like always. I s
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The pain is unbearable. It’s been a whole day since my water broke, and still, nothing. My body is shaking, drenched in sweat, my muscles screaming in protest with every contraction. The nurses hover around me, their faces tight with worry. I hear them whispering to my mother-in-law—something about a c-section. No. I don’t want that. I wanted to do this naturally. I wanted to be strong. But I’m not strong anymore. I’m broken. My mother-in-law tells them to wait. Just one more hour, she says. Maybe I’ll push through. Maybe my body will finally listen. The hour passes in a blur of agony. I’m so tired. My vision swims, the edges darkening. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. My limbs feel like lead, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I’m slipping. My head hearts even more than my body. Then I hear a voice. It was Soft but firm. Telling me to be strong. I could feel a hand gripping mine, warm and steady. "Be brave, Dema. You can do this." I don’t know who it is—maybe my mother in l
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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
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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.
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There were nights when the weight of my father’s expectations pressed down on me until I couldn’t breathe. I’d sit in the dark, wondering if I was an embarrassment to him—if I’d ever be enough. But Dema… she always knew. She’d find me, her hands gentle on my shoulders, her voice steady. "You’re not failing," she’d say. "You’re building something he’ll never understand." And somehow, just her saying it made me believe it. She never let me face anything alone. Every gala, every meeting, every public appearance—she was there, flawless, poised, making me look stronger just by standing beside me. People noticed. They’d whisper about how lucky I was, and they were right. When my mother’s birthday came around, and I was drowning in indecision, Dema took over. She planned everything—the flowers my mother loved, the guests list, even the cake from that little bakery she used to take me to as a child. My mother hugged me that night and said, "it was one of the best birthdays I've ever had."
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I stood there, staring at the half-finished rose garden, dirt smeared across my hands, sweat dripping down my forehead. I had never done anything like this before—not with my own hands, at least. My whole life, if I wanted something done, I paid someone to do it. But this… this had to be done by me. Dema had made me that sweater—knitted it herself, stitch by stitch. I still remember the way she smiled when she gave it to me, how soft it felt, how it carried the weight of her effort. I wanted to give her something just as meaningful, something that showed her I cared enough to try. But what could I do? I didn’t know how to knit, or paint, or build. I had no skills like that. Then, as I passed by the flower shop downtown, it hit me Dema loves flowers.I bought every rose they had. Red, pink, white—enough to fill the entire side garden of the mansion. When I got home, I called the gardener over. "I need everything ready—soil, tools, space. I'm doing this myself," I told him. He r
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Dema wasn’t just my wife—she was my first real friend, the first person who truly saw me.Before her, no one had ever asked about the things that brought me joy—not out of obligation or strategy, but simple curiosity. She was the one who listened when I rambled about random historical facts, who remembered the names of my childhood pets, who laughed at my terrible jokes not because she had to, but because she genuinely found them funny. With her, I didn’t have to perform or posture. For the first time, I felt like I could just exist and that would be enough. She taught me things I never realized I was missing—small, sacred acts of love I’d never witnessed growing up. She was the first person to cook my favorite meal just because she noticed I’d had a long day. The first to show me how to hold someone’s gaze until the world fades away, how to listen not just to words but to the spaces between them. She showed me how to celebrate the details—the way someone’s nose scrunches when they
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My whole life, I’ve known that people liked me—not for who I was, but for where I came from. Growing up, I attended an elite international school, the kind reserved for the children of diplomats, CEOs, and old-money heirs. It was a world of polished hallways and whispered connections, where last names carried more weight than personalities. My parents never let me forget my privilege. "You deserve only the best," they would say, as if excellence were an inheritance rather than something earned. Their words were laced with unspoken rules Only associate with those who match your status. Never lower yourself. Remember who you are.But the irony was suffocating. Even among the privileged, I was treated differently—like some kind of crown prince in a kingdom of lesser nobles. At first, I thought it was because of my family’s wealth, or maybe my father’s influence in certain circles. But the truth was far more transactional. The other children didn’t befriend me; they were assigned to me. T
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After the storm of anger subsided, the crushing weight of realization settled over me. What had I done? The question echoed in my mind, relentless and suffocating. I had lost control—completely, unforgivably. And now, I had to fix it. But how? This wasn’t just anyone—this was her. My wife. The woman who had stood by me through every hardship, whose laughter had been my solace, whose touch had been my anchor. And I had struck her. A hard, unforgiving slap—one fueled by a rage I didn’t even recognize in myself. The moment my hand connected with her skin, something inside me shattered. I had never been the kind of man who concerned himself with the emotions of others. If I wronged someone, so what? If they resented me, it was their problem, not mine. I moved through life untouched, unbothered. But this… this was different. This wasn’t some stranger, some acquaintance whose feelings I could dismiss. This was the woman I loved. The other half of my soul. Why had I done it? The questi
