Threads of love

The weight of a promise

Chapter one

I sat on the edge of my bed, gazing out the window at the vibrant Turkish sky, painted in brilliant hues of orange and pink as the sun began to set. The view was breathtaking, yet my heart felt unbearably heavy with unspoken worries. I sighed, turning my attention to a collection of photos from my childhood in London. My family had moved to Turkey when I was thirteen; it had been my mother's dream, and my father promised her that as soon as she was done having children, we would make the move.

Now, Turkey felt like home, nestled close to my father's birthplace in Syria.

As I slipped my bracelets onto my wrist, I performed last-minute touch-ups to my appearance, my hands trembling slightly. I carefully opened my drawer and retrieved a tiny velvet box. It was delicate and dainty, almost too precious to touch, but I found the courage to lift the lid. Inside, a diamond ring glimmered, its brilliance almost overwhelming, as if it were urging me to make a choice. I quickly shut the box, returning it to the drawer, my heart racing. Tonight was the night of my nikkah, a moment I had longed for since I was fifteen. At nineteen, I should be overflowing with excitement and joy, yet all I felt was emptiness.

A loud knock on my door startled me.

"Come in," I stuttered, hastily adjusting my dress.

My older brother, Ibrahim, entered and closed the door behind him. His gaze lingered on me, concern etched across his face.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to. I can call him."

There was an almost mournful look in his eyes, as if he could sense the turmoil within me. I shook my head, forcing a smile.

"I've wanted this since I was fifteen. It would be pathetic to walk away now."

Ibrahim nodded, quickly masking his concern. "Of course."

As we walked downstairs, my heart pounded violently in my chest, his words echoing in my mind:

"I can call him."

The moment we entered the living room, I was enveloped by the beauty of my mother's decorations. White orchids and red roses adorned every surface, their vibrant colours contrasting beautifully against draped fabrics of gold and deep blue, glowing in the warm flicker of candlelight. Delicate platters of baklava glistened with honey and pistachios, while plates stacked high with savoury grape leaves and borek filled the air with rich, inviting aromas.

"Aalya, you look so beautiful, my love," my mother whispered, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

I smiled softly, the nervous pit in my stomach deepening with every passing moment.

"It looks stunning, Mama. Thank you." I glanced around, completely awestruck, but then I caught my mother's gaze. She stared at me for a moment before looking down, a shadow of sadness crossing her features. She knew, but she chose to ignore it.

The weight of the evening pressed down on me, and as I prepared to step into a new chapter of my life, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was about to make a choice that would forever alter the course of my future.

My dad sat cross-legged on the floor, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, his eyes lighting up when he saw me.

"Aalya, my rose, come here!" he called out, his arms open wide, a huge smile plastered across his face.

"Assalamu alaikum," I greeted him, shaking his hand warmly.

"Walaikalam salam," he replied, kissing my hand before taking another drag from his cigarette.