The crimson dye of the henna burning in my palms was, perhaps, the only beautiful thing about this day. I was one of the few young girls left who still wove kilims.
The colors others tried to flee from—shrouding themselves in black instead—meant everything to me.
"How delicate… such beauty! Why doesn't she go out to dance like the other girls? Rabia!"
Turning to the woman who called my name, a weary smile lingered on my lips. I had lost count of how many times someone had asked why I was sitting still today. Still, it was better than the endless advice they offered me about marriage.
"Yes, sister?"
"Why don't you rise and sway a little, let the crowd feast their eyes on you?"
Another woman chimed in:
"Are you Cavit's daughter?"
I lowered my head, keeping a faint smile on my face. I couldn't say I was proud of my father—truth be told, whenever someone asked about him, I grew tense. Yet if I didn't smile, they might suspect there were problems within our family.
And if anyone ever caught wind of those problems, my father would surely lock us all inside the house.
Once, I used to think of him simply as old-fashioned.
But now, I realized that "old-fashioned" was far too mild a word. His mind belonged to the age of ignorance.
As the firstborn, I remembered clearly how he pressured my mother for a son. Yet God had not granted him that. For days, I secretly rejoiced inside. He had three daughters, one after another. It was not enough to repay my poor mother's suffering, but it was still the greatest lesson life could have dealt him.
"Are you Cavit's daughter, Rabia?"
"Yes," I answered when the woman repeated her question.
"Are you the eldest?"
I nodded silently in response. I couldn't bring myself to say, "Yes, I am the eldest child."
"Do you have any sisters?"
Before I could answer the stream of questions, our close neighbor, Sister Saliha, laughed and jumped in.
"Oh, come now, auntie! What do you care if she has sisters or not? Don't pester the girl."
"I have two unmarried sons," the older woman replied with a knowing smile. "If this young lady is this beautiful, then surely her sister must be the same."
"Thank you for considering me worthy, but I'm not thinking about marriage."
"What do you mean, not thinking about it? Are you studying, perhaps? If you're educated, we'll wait for you, dear. We'll even let you finish your schooling."
Of course, everyone knew that whenever a mother-in-law made such promises, her new daughter-in-law would never see the inside of a classroom again. She would be buried under housework from dawn till night.
"Thank you, but I don't feel ready for marriage at all. Besides, I'm only nineteen. Is there really such a rush?"
They laughed among themselves. How easily they spoke of marriage, as though it were the simplest decision in the world! Yet for me, it was a burden that kept me awake at night, tossing in restless sleep, haunted by thoughts of who I might be forced to marry.
At least I had one gift to hold on to—I could weave kilims. It was a skill passed down from my mother, and I was determined to keep it alive.
Still, I wasn't naïve. I knew exactly why these women were so eager to marry me off. Their intentions were far from innocent.
"But how can you say that, my dear? Don't close your heart to marriage. Without a mother to guide you, three sisters alone in that house—it's only proper that you marry quickly."
And then came the words that cut the deepest. Words that lodged like a stone in my throat, wounding me so badly that I could never look at the speaker the same way again. They came from Aunt Saliha—the very woman who had always stood by us, offering comfort, a hand on the shoulder in every hardship.
Now even with those I valued most, a distance had grown that could never be crossed. Aunt Saliha, once my mother's closest friend, seemed more eager for our marriages than anyone else. To some, her efforts may have seemed kind. To me, they felt like betrayal.
"Why? Isn't that house our home too? We cook, we clean, we keep it running. Why must we be the ones to leave?"
The sudden silence among the women was my doing. I wasn't foolish enough not to understand what Aunt Saliha truly meant. Meeting her gaze for several seconds, I let a small smile play on my lips before asking softly:
"Tell me, Aunt Saliha—if we are the ones who keep the house turning, why must we be the ones to go?"
One of the gossiping neighbors, as if carrying the heavy responsibility of delivering the truth, placed her hand on my knee in a false gesture of intimacy and spoke without a shred of shame.
"Your father has been widowed for a long time, my dear. He should build his life again, too. But if another woman enters your home, and you don't get along with her, you'll only feel like a burden. Leaving then will be even harder. It's better for you to find a husband now, while you still can."
I stood up immediately. I already knew they had someone in mind for him. To them, I was old enough to be married off, yet somehow still too naïve to notice what was happening under my own roof.
Despite the hurt etched clearly on my face, they went on talking. Even as I walked away, the women behind me kept saying that marrying off my widowed father was the most suitable choice.
Aunt Saliha hurried after me, calling out, "Rabia!"
Did she not realize that every time we met, her words carried the same hidden meaning? Did she think I hadn't understood her intentions—that every conversation circled back to finding me a "match"?
"Rabia, wait, my girl! Please calm down!"
I stopped abruptly and turned to face her. Seeing the unease in her eyes, I almost stayed silent. Almost. But the weight of all her veiled hints over the years burned inside me too fiercely.
"I am not your daughter!"
Her eyes widened in shock. She hadn't expected this outburst—and truth be told, neither had I.
"Stop calling me that. Don't you think I understand what you've been trying to do? I know everything, Aunt Saliha! For God's sake… don't humiliate yourself further."
Her hand, half-raised to reach for me, trembled. Did she really believe I hadn't noticed?
"Rabia, my dear, I don't understand. Why would you say such a thing? What have I done?"
"I know exactly why you're so desperate to marry me and my sisters off. Don't deny it. I know the woman they plan to marry my father to—it's you. Did you really think I wouldn't realize after all this time?"
Even as her eyes still held the same shock, I saw her cheeks flush red with shame. I hadn't expected it to cut me so deeply, too. Shaking my head slowly, I whispered my final words:
"Please… don't ever do this again. You can never take my mother's place."