-Layla Saidi:
In our family, girls were taught one thing:
Marry rich. Have babies. Keep your mouth shut.
For generations, every woman got married before twenty-one.
And every single one of them was miserable.
My grandmother used to say,
"Two minutes of pleasure, twenty years of pain."
And she said it like it was a joke.
But she wasn't laughing.
At family dinners, I watched my mother, aunts, and older cousins nod silently while the men talked politics, money, and what the women should be doing differently.
After dinner, the women disappeared into the kitchen — sleeves rolled up, heads down — washing dishes and whispering about their husbands' tempers, their latest affairs, their loneliness.
Meanwhile, the men stayed in the living room — beer in hand, shoes kicked off, voices loud.
"She gets mouthy sometimes, but I shut that down quick,"
one uncle would boast.
"They start whining when they don't get what they want,"
another would laugh.
"You just gotta remind them who pays the bills."
And the others?
They'd nod and clap him on the back.
I once heard my aunt whisper to my mother in the kitchen, voice trembling,
"It gets easier once you accept it."
But I never wanted to accept it.
That evening, I came home from school with the back of my neck burning under the late sun. My uniform clung to me with sweat, and my backpack strap had left a dent in my shoulder.
But the second I opened the front door, the weight got worse.
The smell of frying onions and cumin hit me. Voices overlapped. My sisters were arguing over the oven timer.
"You burned the bread again, Reema."
"It's not even burnt, it's crispy!"
"You say that every time."
"Layla, shoes," my mother called sharply from the kitchen without even turning around.
I kicked them off, wiped my face with the back of my hand, and headed straight to the sink to help without being asked.
This was the routine.
Me and my sisters rotated chores like a machine. The kitchen was ours. The living room belonged to the men.
Dinner was the same every night.
We served the men first — plates piled high, tea poured, bread warm. My father didn't look up as I set his plate down. My brothers didn't say thank you. That wasn't expected of them.
Once they were full and halfway into their second round of food, we sat to eat what was left.
I ended up squished between my younger sisters on the corner mat with barely enough elbow room.
"Amira's getting a dress made," Reema said between bites. "Ivory lace. It's so pretty."
"It's not even a real engagement yet," Amira muttered, cheeks flushed. "It's just a visit."
"Still! You'll probably be married by your birthday."
Amira smiled down at her plate like that was something to be proud of.
I glanced across the table at Lina. She was closest to me in age — only a year younger — and the only one who didn't look thrilled by the whole marriage circus. She picked at her food and stayed quiet.
"You excited, Layla?" Yasmin asked me suddenly. "You're almost eighteen. You'll probably get the next proposal!"
"Yasmin," our mom cut in, tone sharp. "Don't tease."
"It's not teasing," Yasmin shrugged. "I think it's romantic."
I forced a smile and took another bite.
Romantic.
That's what they thought this was.
After dinner, the girls cleared the plates while the boys drifted back to the couch.
Football highlights echoed through the house. Laughter and shouting.
In the kitchen, the air turned heavy with dish soap and sweat.
"I heard Fatima's husband won't let her work," Amira said, scrubbing a plate.
"He doesn't have to," my mother replied. "He provides."
"She wanted to teach," Lina mumbled. "She finished her degree."
"She got married," my mother said simply. "That's what matters."
And just like that, the conversation was over.
Later that night, after prayers and tea and my father's long lecture about discipline, I collapsed onto the thin mattress on our bedroom floor.
Our room was always too warm. Too crowded. Too loud.
The twins were already giggling under the covers, whispering about which boy from the market had better hair.
"I want a husband who buys me flowers," Reema whispered.
"I want one who lets me wear makeup," Yasmin added.
"I want one who lets me leave," I said quietly.
The silence was instant.
Lina turned to me, eyes half-lidded but sharp.
"You should be careful saying stuff like that."
"I know."
But knowing didn't make it easier.
That night I stared at the ceiling fan, watching it spin, counting the seconds between each creak.
I imagined a life where I could sleep in. Laugh loudly. Walk freely. Touch someone I chose. Someone soft, with kind eyes. A woman, maybe. Someone who didn't want to cage me but hold me.
But those were just fantasies.
In this house, freedom was a story told in whispers — and love, real love, was never written for girls like me.