her father, in the past. But they didn’t think I was involved or had the intention to become involved with their daughter. They wanted her to marry a doctor or lawyer. Not a part-time adjunct professor of English literature at a community college. They didn’t care that I was a published author. Okay, granted, I self-published, but I made a decent career selling that novel. It was well received by a number of bloggers. They still didn’t care. “What would people think if you married a writer?” they told her. She said she didn’t care. My parents said roughly the same thing. “Who’s going to marry a writer?” I would shrug my shoulders. With that kind of attitude, no one would. My parents had big plans for me. Especially after I was accepted to Columbia University. They wanted me to major in pre-law. Then after graduation, I would attend law school. And for the most part, I was okay with that. I didn’t mind the major; it was interesting. But, I took a writing class in my sophomore year and fell in love. I switched my major to English and, once I graduated, I attended Columbia’s School of the Arts for creative writing. They weren’t exactly happy about that decision. My father was so against it, he didn’t go to any of my graduation ceremonies. After I switched my major, he said he wasn’t going to pay for my tuition. That was hard. The lack of support from my family was a terrible realization, and I thought I had made the wrong decision. But, I started waiting tables and took out some loans and was able to pay my way through school. Once I finished my master’s degree, I was hired as an adjunct professor teaching introductory classes on creative writing, and then I moved out of my parents’ home. My father and I weren’t talking much. At all really. He was a stubborn Palestinian man who wanted things his way. There was no talking to him. My mother and I kept our relationship. Our relationship was always stronger than the relationship between my father and me. Palestinian men are notorious mama’s boys and I was no different. She didn’t want me to move out of the house, at least not until I was married. But she understood that I could no longer live in the same house with my father. I left and moved into a small apartment in Brooklyn. “What time do you get off work?” I asked Mariam. We were in the living room now. It was an ordinary living room. A leather couch that stretched along the wall. A TV hung on the opposite wall. There was a bookshelf, half empty near the window. We were sitting on the couch and she was putting her heels on. The TV was on, but I wasn’t paying attention. Mariam had the most adorable ankles. “It’s a short shift. I’m covering for someone, so I’ll be off at 5-ish,” she said, straightening her black pencil skirt. She took a pack of cigarettes from her purse and lit one. “I’m really glad we can smoke in your apartment.”
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