Laila...
The envelope came on a Saturday.
It was cream-colored with a neat blue stamp, bearing my name in careful script — not my full name, just "Laila." That's how I knew it was from them. From his family.
Mama handled it like it was sacred. Like she could feel my future inside it.
I didn't open it right away. I left it on my bed, untouched, while I helped wash the dishes and sweep the veranda. But all day, it pulsed behind my eyes like a quiet drum.
By late evening, curiosity gave in to responsibility.
Inside was a single page.
> "Our son returns in two months. We trust Laila continues her studies and preparations with grace and discipline. He speaks fondly of her still, and we hope the arrangement remains secure in both families' hearts."
No warmth. No question.
Just assumption.
And under the letter, a photo — one I hadn't seen before. Him, standing beside a mosque in Kampala. Smiling stiffly. He looked older than I remembered. More like someone I should respect than someone I should marry.
I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I didn't even speak.
I just folded the letter back and sat on the edge of my bed… feeling like I was being handed over quietly. Like property.
---
Mama knocked gently.
"You okay, habibti?"
I nodded.
"It's good news," she said. "Soon, you'll be a wife."
I said nothing.
I didn't have the heart to tell her that today, I wasn't thinking about him.
I was thinking about the girl who sat in the rain with me — the one who wore her heart like ink on a page.
The one I wasn't supposed to even notice.
---