Chapter 5: STAGING A LIFE
The first sign that something was wrong was Kadir's silence.
Amarisa had noticed it during breakfast. He'd stirred his tea with the same mechanical grace, read from the same muted news tab, but there was a stiffness to him — even more than usual.
He barely touched the toast.
He left his phone facedown.
And when he looked at her, it was as if he was calculating how to start something he wasn't ready to finish.
She didn't push.
Not until the dishes were cleared, and he lingered by the kitchen counter like he was waiting for the courage to arrive.
"Is there something?" she asked gently, not looking up from her folded napkin.
His voice came low and flat.
"My father called this morning."
That explained everything.
"He's arranged a dinner."
"Another one?"
"A proper one," he clarified. "Formal. Both families. At our house. Saturday evening."
Amarisa straightened, finally meeting his eyes.
"How many people?"
"His entire side. Your parents. Possibly a few uninvited cousins."
She leaned back in the chair.
"So, we're hosting a performance."
"That's one way to put it."
"And we're not allowed to decline."
"Not even slightly."
A beat passed.
"He made it clear," Kadir added. "The house should reflect a settled marriage. Everything about us should read… together."
Amarisa stared at the soft light slanting through the curtains, thinking. It was early spring, and the air had begun to warm, but her fingers still felt cold.
"Alright," she said finally. "Then let's give them a show."
The first thing they did was draw up a plan.
They sat side by side on the long velvet couch, a yellow notepad open between them, a pen resting on the edge like it wasn't heavy with consequences.
Kadir listed logistics.
Amarisa listed impressions.
"They'll expect to see your things in my closet," she said first, matter-of-fact.
"And yours in mine."
"We pick one room."
"Yours is closer to the hallway."
"Then yours it is."
Kadir scribbled something.
"Bathroom too," she added. "People notice toothbrushes. Shower gels. That sort of thing."
"I can move mine over tonight."
"You should. Tonight."
By the afternoon, they were standing in Kadir's minimalist bedroom.
The walls were white. The furniture sharp and dark. It smelled faintly of expensive cologne and clean linen.
But it was empty of warmth.
Amarisa stepped in, eyes scanning the place like she was designing a stage set.
"It's very… bachelor."
"Thanks."
"You have two pillows. Both flat. No headboard. No texture."
"Didn't know I needed texture."
"We need the room to look like it's lived in by more than one species."
He blinked. "Species?"
"Humor me."
He stood awkwardly near the door as she moved around the room.
She replaced the gray throw blanket with a softer, woven one from her collection. Added a reading lamp beside the bed. Swapped out his plain prayer rug for a matching set, hers in cream, his in navy.
She added three of her scarves to the open closet rail.
He placed her framed Qur'an on his shelf.
Slowly, the room began to change.
Still him.
But softened by her.
They went grocery shopping the next morning.
Together.
They didn't speak much at first — walking down wide, polished aisles with separate lists but matching expressions. Kadir handled the main dishes. Amarisa managed desserts and table settings.
"What kind of tea do your family drink after dinner?" she asked, tossing a box of almond biscuits into the cart.
"Chamomile or Moroccan mint. But don't bother. My dad will complain either way."
"So we impress everyone else."
"Exactly."
By the third aisle, they were discussing whether pistachio or chocolate looked more elegant in glass dessert bowls. Amarisa was pointing at tablecloth colors. Kadir was holding up two types of napkin rings.
They didn't smile.
But they weren't cold, either.
They were functioning.
Together.
Back home, Hafsah joined Amarisa in the kitchen while Kadir set up folding chairs in the dining space.
"He's a difficult man," Hafsah said as she grated lemon zest over the cake batter. "Your father-in-law."
"I gathered."
"Your husband used to be quieter when he was younger. Not cold — just… used to holding things in. You'll see it the more you're around."
Amarisa folded the batter gently.
"I don't need to see it. I live with it."
Saturday arrived like a breath held too long.
Amarisa was the first to wake. She laid out her outfit early — a muted taupe dress that flowed gracefully but modestly, her scarf in satin, pinned at the jaw. A subtle touch of eyeliner. Clear lip gloss.
No jewelry but her wedding band.
No perfume but rose water.
The house was spotless. The scent of saffron rice floated through the air. Kadir emerged dressed in a navy suit, his cufflinks glinting. He wore no tie. Left his top button open. Understated. Presentable. Masculine without flair.
He stood in the hallway, watching her descend the stairs.
He didn't say anything.
But he looked longer than he usually did.
The first guests arrived at 5:42 PM.
Her parents came in with a warm smile, arms full of gifts — a small dessert tray, new prayer beads for the house, a stack of elegant dinner napkins.
Then came Kadir's side of the family.
His father arrived alone, sharp in a tailored coat, presence heavy, gaze just as commanding as Amarisa remembered from the wedding. He did not smile, but he offered a subtle nod to her — one that said more than any warm greeting could.
The uncles followed, then cousins — men with deep voices and formal smiles, women with perfect curls and heels clicking on the marble floors. Somewhere in the middle, a child spilled juice on the hallway rug and cried like the world had ended.
By the time they all sat down, the house smelled like spices and lemon polish.
Dinner began slowly.
Chairs scraped softly. Dishes were passed. Compliments landed.
"This space is stunning," one of Kadir's aunts remarked, adjusting her shawl. "You've made it feel like a real home."
"We worked on it together," Amarisa replied, her tone light but practiced.
Kadir simply nodded, lifting his glass slightly.
Then came the sharper edges of conversation.
"Kadir," his father said, setting down his spoon. "How is married life adjusting your focus?"
Kadir wiped his mouth carefully before replying.
"It's adjusting a lot of things."
"That can be either good or dangerous."
"I think it's necessary."
Across the table, Amarisa's mother quietly sipped her water, eyes scanning both her daughter and son-in-law.
"And what about you, Amarisa?" Kadir's aunt added sweetly. "How are you managing… such a serious man?"
"With dua and a bit of humor," Amarisa answered, smiling softly.
A few chuckles. A fork dropped somewhere in the background.
Then, the inevitable question:
"So," said a relative who barely touched his food, "when do we expect a baby?"
Amarisa didn't flinch.
Kadir answered before she could.
"When we both feel settled. It's only been a week."
"A week is long enough for young people these days," said another uncle with a wink.
"Children are a blessing," her mother offered gently. "But they require two hearts fully ready."
Kadir's father leaned back slightly, gaze narrowed.
"You're both old enough to know what's expected. This isn't a long-term dating arrangement."
"It's a marriage," Kadir said clearly. "And we take it seriously. That's why we're not rushing anything."
The room shifted.
Respectfully.
But definitely.
Later came the teasing.
"Alright, who cooks more?" one cousin asked.
"She does," Kadir said. "She owns the kitchen."
"And what does he do?" someone joked.
"Makes strong tea," Amarisa replied. "And reads complicated books at 6am."
"He's always been that way," his father said dryly. "More brain than brawn."
Kadir didn't look away.
"And you always thought that was a flaw."
The room went quiet for just a breath too long.
Then, one of her uncles clapped his hands together.
"Wallahi, it's like watching a film."
"A well-acted one," a cousin added with a smirk.
Amarisa smiled, even as her chest tightened.
She was playing a part.
But she wasn't sure she knew the ending.
After dessert, Kadir excused himself to bring in mint tea.
His father followed.
In the hallway, the older man spoke quietly.
"You're convincing them. I'll give you that."
"It's not an act."
"Don't play semantics, Kadir. I raised you."
"Then you know I don't lie to make people comfortable."
"You haven't even touched her," his father muttered. "Anyone can see it."
Kadir's voice turned sharp.
"That's none of your business."
"Everything about this marriage is my business."
"Not anymore."
His father stared. Said nothing more.
And walked back to the table.
By 9:10 PM, the last cousin left.
The house was quiet again.
Kadir and Amarisa stood in the doorway, shoulders inches apart.
"Well," he said.
"That was exhausting."
She pulled her scarf off her neck, gently loosening the pins.
"Do you think they bought it?"
"Maybe."
"Do you think we're lying?"
He looked at her.
Longer than he meant to.
"I think we're trying."
She nodded. Then walked up the stairs, slow and quiet.
The shared room was still warm with soft lighting. His prayer rug lay beside hers. Their toothbrushes leaned in a single glass cup.
She reached up to unpin her scarf, her reflection watching her from the mirror.
Behind her, Kadir walked in, loosened his cufflinks, and unbuttoned his collar.
They didn't speak.
But they didn't leave, either.
They just… coexisted.
Still distant.
Still learning.
Still pretending.
And maybe — just maybe — starting to wonder what it would mean to stop.
Sometimes pretending becomes a practice.
And sometimes, with enough time, practice becomes a truth neither one expected to believe in.