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I turn away from him with chagrin, a light breeze rustling my skirt. I lift a hand, catching my hair and tucking it behind my ear.
“Your father’s being here signals a new phase of our relationship.”
I pause, still, waiting for him to continue.
“Early on in our marriage, we agreed it would be best to avoid speaking of him.”
My smile lacks amusement. “I don’t know if we agreed to that. You certainly declared it to be for the best.”
“Do you disagree with me?”
I turn to face him slowly. “It’s not that I disagree with you in theory. It just doesn’t feel practical.”
“Why not?”
A short laugh emerges. “Because he’s my father. You’ve told me how much your own father meant to you – you slept in his room, checking on him all night to be sure he was still breathing. Do you think I love my dad any less than you did yours?”
“I have all the evidence I need of how much you care for your father,” he says with a gentleness that is surprising.
“But?”
“But we’re married. There is a chance my baby is in your belly, which makes us – you and me – a family.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
“You are my wife, my Emira, my country’s Sheikha, and you will be the mother to the heirs of Qabid. I understand that you will want to have a relationship with your father. I accept that. But for the sake of our life together, we must have boundaries in place.”
It all makes so much sense but I know this isn’t the solution.
“It’s been sixteen years, Zahir. Sixteen years. Are you really still so angry at him for whatever his alleged crime is that you can’t look past it and at least try to get to know him?”
“I am not angry with your father.”
“Yes, you are. This isn’t our first conversation about him, and I know you. I understand you. I’ve seen the anger and disgust in your face whenever his name is mentioned.”
His hand tightens at his side, the knuckles white. “All the more reason for us to avoid this conversation.”
“It’s just not possible,” I stamp my foot. “Surely you can see that? Why can’t we just resolve this? Meet with him.” I hold my finger up. “One dinner, or coffee, something. Come and look in his eyes and see how wrong you’ve been all these years.”
“I’ve met your father.”
Surprise blasts through me.
“Of course I’ve met him.”
“What? When?”
“Before he went to America. I wanted to look into the eyes of the man who –,”
I hold my breath.
“I was planning to exile,” he finishes, but it’s disjointed, as though the tail-end of his comment isn’t what he intended to make.
“And?”
“And, I exiled him,” he says with such finality, a shiver runs the length of my spine.
I want to defend my father, to tell Zahir how wrong he was, but something holds me back. I feel as though there’s so much I don’t know, just like dad said. But I know Zahir. I understand him. And I know that he’s just confessed something to me that I should pay heed to.
