“Yunus,” A clean diaper hung from Hasan’s hands as he sternly marched after his son. “Agar aap mere paas abhi nahi aayi, toh koi storytime nahi ho ga.”
“He’s threatening Yunus that there'll be no story time.”Umaima’s arm came around me and rested on top of my left shoulder. I surrendered to its warmth. “He should know by now that threatening a three-year-old will do more harm than good, and his wonderfulKhalawill take over and secretly do storytime.”
Hasan turned his head to us. Despite the comforting smile on his face, I shrivelled under it with ignominy.
Letting down strangers I was in charge of was one thing but letting down a brother was the equivalent of being choked and not liking it.
“Shouldn’t you be the good aunt that you are and help your dear brother with his kid instead of doing nothing?” He worded the question for Umaima but looked between both of us.
Right then, Yunus crouched on the ground and took a big, fat, clumpyshit.
Umaima let out a low whistle.
Hasan pressed his lips together, mutteringsabrunder his breath. I definitely would not have the patience for that. For someone so small, the smell protruded through the whole house in hellacious waves.
Umaima laughed at the grimace on my face. Children were adorable menaces, but I didn’t want any of their horrid smells and dopamine rushes right now.
You love saying that you don't want kids, don’t you? We all know that you can’t have them.
Infertility was only one possible negative of polycystic ovarian syndrome. It didn’t mean anything.
Layers of stress lines bulged on Hasan’s forehead. He kneeled before Yunus and gently lectured him with a harsh tone. Yunus scrunched his whole face together beforereleasing another glob of muck and then proceeded to cry.Poor Baby.
“Hide that pout before Hasan sees it and says you're next on diaper duty.”
A shiver snaked down my back and washed away the sullen expression. “Definitely don't want that happening.”
We let Hasan deal with Yunus while we cleaned up the mess he left behind.
By we, I meantmebecause apparently Umaima was on her period and the poop was making her cramps worse.
It was when the three of us slumped down on the couch with Yunus sleeping in the other room that Hasan stared me in the eyes and asked, “Where were you?”
So much for diverting their attention.
“On a walk,” I caught onto a flyaway thread from my dress and tightened it around my finger to the point of numbness.
“Why?” He pushed. Hasan sat across from me which made this feel more and more like an interrogation than sitting with two of my closest friends. Hasan was like that. Unnerving but loving—right now, he was downright scary.
I shifted in my seat. “Because I needed to clear my head.”
Silence ran around the room in laps and its legs were not getting tired. It felt like an eternity before Hasan spoke again. “So, when I got the alert on my phone that you were in one of the shadiest parts of New York—might I add, near Ayeza’s house—that you were on awalk?”
“You went to Ayeza’s?” Umaima’s shock felt thick on my skin. Something like wool. “Even after we told you it wasn’t a good idea?”
Hasan raised a hand in Umaima’s direction. “She probably has a reason. Let her talk,Guriya.”
The thread broke and a heavy weight of disappointment, judgement, and suffocating attention weighed on my head. Tears brimmed on the outer corners of my eyes. Another blink and they would start pouring—adding to my embarrassment.
Maybe if I cried long enough and hard enough, I could drown in my tears and avoid this situation altogether.
But I doubt that’d get me far.
“Adelaide,” Hasan said. “I’m talking to you.”
“I…” My voice shook. Umaima’s hands reached out and curved around mine. It was tense and I knew she didn’t want to, but she knew me better than I knew myself and was always there for me. She also understood what it was like to be interrogated by Hasan. “I went to go talk to her about everything.”
“Why’d you go talk to her when it would only make things worse?”
