AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE
In the depths of tradition and societal expectations, a young woman named Layla finds herself caught in an arranged marriage to Muhammad, the son of her father's close friend. At just 19 years old, Layla embarks on a journey th...
Gelin (bride) Kız (girl) Abla (sister) Ağabey (elder brother) Bacım (sister) Canım (my dear) Nolur/ lütfen (please) Kuzum (my little lamb or my dear) Aşkım (my love) Damat (groom) Sağol (thanks) Teyze( Aunt) Teşekkürler (thank you) Güzel (beautiful)
MR MOH'S AESTHETIC 🖤
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I had just sunk into the deepest part of my sleep when I was jolted awake by the sound of my name being called.
"Leyla!" Anne voice echoed from downstairs, carrying with it that familiar blend of affection and authority.
I groaned, wishing I could ignore her summons and slip back into the comfort of my bed. But Anne, with her sharp sense of responsibility, would never let that happen. With a sigh, I reluctantly pulled the soft fabric of my soft blanket over my head and forced myself to leave the warmth of my bed.
"Uyanmayacak mısın?Aren't you going to wake up?" she called, a familiar tone of impatience creeping into her words. As is often the case in our house, Anne had no tolerance for laziness.
Being Turkish, Anne frequently spoke to us in her native language, a language she held dear and wanted us to learn so we could appreciate her culture more fully. She insisted we speak to her in Turkish at all times, no matter how much we resisted.
What does she want this early in the morning? I thought, already feeling irritated at the disruption of my peaceful slumber. Anne and her never-ending wahala.
I made my way to her room, still half-dazed from sleep.
"Günaydın Annecim. Good morning, Mom" I greeted her, trying to mask my frustration with a smile.
"How are you?" she asked, her voice soft but searching, as if she could see the exhaustion in my eyes. Anne always had a way of reading me, even when I didn't want to be read.
"I'm fine, but you, my dear Anne, just interrupted my beauty sleep." I said, half-joking, half-complaining. As expected, Anne wasn't fazed. She simply looked at me, her face softening in that typical way of hers, and went on with her morning routine as if I hadn't spoken.
Today marked exactly two weeks since Muhammad's family had come to our house for the gaisuwa—the traditional visit to ask for my hand in marriage. Since then, everything in my life seemed to shift in subtle but undeniable ways.
The thought of marrying Muhammad was still a blur to me, one I had not fully come to terms with. But today, it seemed Anne had already made up her mind about the future. There was no turning back now.
"You're escorting me somewhere today," Anne announced, as if she were giving me an order, and I was too tired to protest.
"Neresi? Where to?" I asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
