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“But Amy, are you happy?”
I ignore the ache low in the pit of my stomach, the feeling that I’ve taken up an impossible position, permanently pulled between my father and my husband, and I nod like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I am, dad. And seeing you here makes me even more so.”
“I never thought I would see this place again.” He shakes his head. “I just worry at what you’ve gotten yourself into; what you’ve given up.”
“Nothing,” I say truthfully. “Believe me, dad, I walked into this marriage with my eyes open. It was the right thing to do.”
“But Zahir is –,” he frowns, shakes his head.
Something dangerous prickles along my spine and I find myself turning away from him. “Have you eaten? I had the palace make some lunch. Your favourites. Shall we sit in the kitchen?”
An hour later, the meal is finished. We made small talk as we ate. The village, the people he’s seen, the changes he’s noticed, and I try not to push him, to interrogate him about the people in particular he’s been with, I try not to be suspicious of my father, as Zahir would be. This is my dad, for God’s sake, and I know he’s not capable of what Zahir thinks.
Except I cannot believe both men. I can’t hold my dad’s innocence as an incontrovertible truth at the same time I have faith in Zahir’s ability to do the right thing at all times. One man is wrong. One man erred. And my father has had to live with the consequences.
Indecision sours my mood.
“I should get back to the palace,” I say, as he finishes his coffee.
He nods, and I feel as though he’s on the brink of saying something. I wait, but then, instead, he folds me into his arms.
“Thank you, Amy. I can never repay you for this. Just promise me –,” he looks up at my face. “Promise me you’re okay?”
“I am,” I say, without missing a beat. And as the car draws closer back to the palace, I really feel it.
“I saw him today.” I blurt the words out, guilt colouring my cheeks. I don’t hold Zahir’s eyes. Instead, I focus on the meal in front of us. Since the evening in the almrisad, we’ve taken to sharing dinner each night. It’s a small act of domesticity that warms me to the core.
“I know.”
I nod. Of course he does. He’s probably informed of all my movements.
“How was it?”
I note he doesn’t ask how was ‘he’. It’s a small distinction. He’s asking about my experience, not my father.
“Strange.” I focus on the practicalities. “The house was different. Someone had repaired all the damage, cleaned it, tidied it. It looked like new.”
He doesn’t respond.
“Zahir? Who did that?”
His eyes spear mine. “It wasn’t fit for habitation.”
It’s a gross mischaracterisation. “It was fine,” I dismiss. “A little rundown, but nothing awful.”
He takes a sip of his wine.
I let it go.
“It was good to see him home again. It made me feel…certain…that this was all worth it.”
A muscle jerks low in his jaw. “I’m glad.”
It sounds as though my father’s happiness is the only consideration, as though there is no value in our marriage besides that.
“You don’t mind?”
“That you saw your father? I presumed you would.”
