I had to talk to Rami. This doubt of his, this fear that I was going to leave him, it didn’t make sense. Where did it even come from? Our marriage wasn’t perfect, but I had decided long ago that this was my family, my home. I wasn’t going anywhere. So why did he think otherwise? I needed answers. Had someone said something to him? Had he seen something, misinterpreted some stray glance or conversation? The uncertainty gnawed at me. If there was a misunderstanding, I had to fix it before it festered. So I cooked his favorite meal spiced lamb with saffron rice, the way his mother used to make it. The familiar rhythms of chopping, stirring, and seasoning calmed me, but my mind kept circling back to the same question: Why does he think I’d leave?The table was set, the food warm. I sat, waiting, my fingers tapping lightly against the wood. The house was quiet except for the sound of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic outside. Every creak made my breath catch, thinking
I wasn’t expecting anyone at the door that afternoon, least of all an elderly woman with sharp eyes and a voice like dry paper. "You’re Dema, aren’t you?" she said, clutching her handbag like it held secrets. "Rami’s girl?" I nodded, too surprised to correct her—Rami’s wife actually—but before I could speak, she stepped closer. "I was his first nanny. Back when he was just a little thing, all knees and wild curls." Something in her tone made my skin prickle. I let her in. Over bitter tea, she told me about Rami’s mother—how she’d been a model once, the kind who glittered in magazines and left for weeks at a time. "That boy spent more nights with me than her," she muttered. Then she leaned in, the steam from her cup curling between us. "But then—poof—she quit. No warning. Just packed up her lights, came home, and never stepped in front of a camera again." I gripped my cup. "Why?" The nanny’s smile was all teeth. "That’s the question, isn’t it? They said ‘stress,’ but I hear
The lawyer advised Rami to speak with Karim before they went to court. Rami decided to follow that advice and called Karim into his office. I wanted to be there, to hear what they would say to each other, but Rami insisted on talking to him alone. Hours passed before Karim finally stepped out. I watched as he tore his resignation letter into pieces, he was clearly upset and he looked defeated. Without a word, he simply went back to work as if nothing had happened. I was stunned. How had Rami convinced him so easily? When I asked Karim about it later, he only said, "I changed my mind." But his voice was flat, his expression empty. He didn’t look convinced, he didn’t even look happy. Something about it felt wrong, but I didn’t know what.A whole week passed, and on the surface, it seemed like Karim had let it all go. But I could see it, the way his smile never reached his eyes, the way he’d stare blankly at his desk, lost in thought. He still worked with the same precision, but some
Karim stood in Rami’s office, his resignation letter on the desk between them. His face was firm, determined, but his eyes… they looked tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t come from late nights at work, but from something deeper. Something personal. "I’ve made my decision," he said, his voice steady. "This isn’t about negotiation. I need to leave."Rami leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, that stubborn set in his jaw that I knew too well. He scoffed. "Come on, Karim. We both know what this is. You’re trying to pressure us into a raise. Well, it’s not happening." I saw Karim’s fingers tighten for just a second before he let out a slow breath. "This has nothing to do with money. My family needs me. That’s all there is to it." My chest tightened. I know Karim. He wasn’t the kind of man to play games. He’d stayed late to help me meet deadlines more times than I could count. He never complained, never asked for anything in return. The whole team respected him, no, more than that
I didn’t know how to tell Rami. Losing someone like Karim wasn’t something the company would just let slide. They didn’t tolerate defections, not when so much knowledge, so much leverage, walked out the door with them. And Rami? He’d see it as betrayal before he ever saw it as a necessity. I knew his reaction before the words even left my mouth. That’s why I chose home, our space, the one place where rage might soften into something quieter, something manageable. A home-cooked dinner, the scent of spices filling the air, the illusion of normalcy. Maybe the warmth of the meal would buy me a few seconds of patience before the storm hit. I stirred the pot absently, watching the steam rise, rehearsing the words in my head. "Karim’s gone. He wants to leave the company and I want you to make it easy for him."My stomach tightened. Rami wouldn’t just nod his head and say " Sure, Let me sign the papers."But I had to tell him. Before the rumors did. Before the consequences did. Before the
I took a deep breath, turning to Rami. "Okay, we’ve talked about this. I’m going back to work." My voice was steady, but my stomach twisted with nerves. He nodded, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze. "You’re ready. Your team needs you." They do.That much was true. After everything I’d put into my career, walking away now felt impossible. I loved my team, they were like family. The thought of leaving them behind made my chest ache. But still, a whole year away. A whole year of slow mornings, of quiet routines, of not being buried under the weight of endless shifts and crushing stress. Just the idea of diving back into that world made my head throb. The long hours, the unpredictable schedule, the constant pressure, how was I supposed to adjust again? Yet, despite the fear, the longing won out. I wanted to go back. I missed the chaos, the purpose, the way my team pulled together when things got tough. "I don’t want to leave them," I murmured, more to myself than to Rami. He
I can’t believe Farah is already one year old today. My baby girl, one whole year. It feels like just yesterday I was holding her for the first time, tiny and fragile in my arms. Now she’s babbling, crawling, grabbing at everything in sight. But of course, my mother-in-law is insisting on throwing her a big birthday party. Of course. I don’t have the heart to say no outright, but the idea makes my skin crawl. Farah won’t even remember this. She’ll be overwhelmed, overstimulated, and then cranky for days afterward. And the guests, A room full of middle-aged women who don’t believe in germs or personal space. They’ll swarm her, pinching her cheeks, covering her in sloppy kisses, passing her around like a party favor. Her immune system is still so new. She doesn’t need all that. I don’t need all that. But here we are. Balloons, cake, a tiny party hat that Farah will inevitably rip off in two seconds. I’ll spend the whole time hovering, sanitizing hands, gently pulling her away from
I’m the worst husband on earth. I’ve come to terms with that fact, no I actually accepted it. It’s not just some fleeting thought anymore, not some dramatic exaggeration to wallow in self-pity. It’s the truth, carved into my bones, etched into every regret that keeps me awake at night. I know it now, with a certainty that aches worse than any wound. And the worst part? I’m used to this feeling. It’s familiar, like an old coat I’ve worn so long I’ve forgotten the weight of it. Before Dema, I was careless. No—worse than careless. I was cruel in the most effortless way, the kind of cruelty that doesn’t even recognize itself. I moved through the world like a proud hawk I was untouchable, unbothered by anything. I did what I wanted, went where I pleased, let people drift into my orbit just long enough to make them believe in something that was never real. I’d smile, I’d charm them , I’d let them hope I would let them dream and then, when the novelty wore off or the guilt prickled too sha
My mom left today, and with her departure, the last barrier between Dema and me vanished. There was no more avoiding the elephant in the room—no more excuses, no more distractions. Dema had no choice but to talk to me now, and as much as I didn’t want to push her, I couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine. I needed answers. I needed to know what I had done wrong, or else the cracks in our relationship would only deepen until there was nothing left to salvage. When I finally gathered the courage to approach her, to ask her why she was so distant, why the anger in her eyes never seemed to fade, things spiraled out of control almost immediately. The moment I opened my mouth, it was like stepping on a landmine. She brought up that night—the night of the commercial event. The night I made a reckless, selfish mistake by staying out late with a woman who wasn’t my wife. My stomach twisted at the memory, at the way I had tried to justify it instead of just owning up to my poor judgme