God's way

Part 2

"Assa binidica!" I call out, letting my voice echo through the hallway as I throw off my shoes and step inside. The familiar, warm scent of spices drifts through the air, mixed with a hint of the cool autumn evening I just left outside.

"Where have you been?" my mother's voice calls back, edged with suspicion. She's at the counter, cutting vegetables with quick, precise movements. Her scarf is loosely tied at her neck, and her face holds that look she gets when she's ready to lecture me.

"I was at Nali's café with Nadiira," I say casually, crossing the room to sit at the dining table.

"Nali's? The one Abobakar owns?" She raises an eyebrow, giving me a sharp look that makes me feel like a child.

"Yes," I mutter, already feeling the familiar tension in the room. I pull my phone out and start scrolling through Instagram, hoping she'll leave it alone.

From the corner of my eye, I see her grip the knife more tightly, chopping the vegetables with a bit too much force. Her jaw clenches, and I can feel her gaze boring into me. I know what's coming—either a lecture about always being on my phone or about coming home too late. Or maybe both.

And then, with a loud smack of her palm against the counter, it begins. "You know what?" She sighs, her tone turning sharp. "You are fifteen years old, Adma, and you barely help around the house! I did not bring you all the way to this country to become your servant!" Her voice rises with frustration, and then, with an exasperated sigh, she mutters something to herself in Sicilian, going back to chopping the vegetables.

This is the part that always stings. My mother never seems to see everything I actually do for her, for our family. I work part-time at a flower shop and use my paychecks to help buy groceries. I clean the house when she's not around, I cook for my little brother, I read him to sleep, I take him to church. I try so hard to make her proud, but she never seems to notice, never seems happy with me.

"What do you need help with?" I ask, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.

"Nothing," she snaps. "I'll just do it all myself, like I always do."

With a dramatic sigh, I rest my head in my hands. Why does she always do this? I grab my phone again, scrolling through Instagram to drown out her sighs and the clatter of dishes. Eventually, she calls us to dinner, and we gather around the round table, the warm food laid out in front of us.

"Dear God, I thank you for this food and water that you have given me, and I thank you for letting me share it with my family. Amin," my mother prays, and we all close our eyes, murmuring "Amin."

My grandmother and my younger brother join us at the table, but they don't pray along. They're Muslim, and yes, our family's a bit of a mix. It's complicated—maybe even chaotic—but it's my life, and I love it, even with the friction that sometimes comes.

We start eating in silence until my little brother, Malik, speaks up, his eyes gleaming with mischief. 

"When will you get a boyfriend, Adma?"

"Never," my older brother Sahmir interrupts firmly.

I roll my eyes, smiling. "How do you know? What if I already have one?"

He glares at me, "What?"

I laugh, shaking my head. "I don't have one, oh my days. Calm down."

"Eat your food now," my mother commands, cutting through our laughter. We all fall back into silence as we finish eating.

Later, as night settles in, I'm in my room, binge-watching a new series on my laptop when my bedroom door slams open. My mother storms in, her eyes blazing.