But the morning brought no peace. Though Jabr and Jomana had managed to sleep through the night, the weight of the debt problem and the unspoken conflict between them hung in the air like a heavy fog, refusing to lift. The issues between them were as raw and unresolved as ever. No miraculous solution had emerged overnight, and neither of them had any real options left. The reality was stark and suffocating. As they descended the narrow, creaking wooden stairs for breakfast, their footsteps were slow and heavy. There were no smiles, no casual morning banter. The silence between them was louder than words, an oppressive barrier neither seemed willing to break. Janiah, sitting at the table, sensed the tension and didn’t engage. She knew better than to force conversation when the air was this icy.
Five minutes passed, then ten. The sound of forks scraping against plates and the occasional clatter of cups were the only things breaking the stillness. Several scrambled eggs were eaten in silence. Jomana was hungry but there was more than hunger gnawing at her. She had been turning things over in her mind all night, trying to make sense of the situation that had upended their lives. Finally, unable to bear the quiet any longer, she set her fork down with a clatter and looked straight at Jabr, her voice steady but carrying the weight of her frustration.
“Why did you do this?” she asked, her words breaking through the tension like a knife through thick fabric. “You didn’t need the money. You own this house. You get an allowance from the American Mission, as a member of the staff. I just don’t get it.” Her eyes bore into him, a mixture of anger and bewilderment. She was looking for answers, for some thread of logic that could make sense of the chaos they were in.
Jabr had no response. He stared down at his plate, moving the eggs around with his fork but not eating. All that she said was true. He did own the house. He did receive an allowance. There was no immediate, desperate need for the money that had driven him to this point. And yet, here they were. He had to ask himself the same question she was asking him: Why did I do it? He searched his mind for an answer, but all he found was a deep, unsettling emptiness—a black hole where logic or faith should have been. The more he tried to pinpoint a reason, the more elusive it became. It was as if he had been gripped by something outside of himself, something he couldn’t quite name.
And now, the house—the one he had lived in all his life, with its familiar creaks and shadows and the memories that had shaped him—was about to disappear. Reduced to rubble and dust, as if it were part of some cosmic punishment for his foolish financial dealings. It felt like more than just a loss; it felt like a judgment. The house’s demolition seemed like a cruel and symbolic act—a tearing away of not just bricks and mortar, but of his very identity, his sense of belonging. Yes, his avarice must be the culprit. The word resounded in his mind like the toll of a bell: avarice. It was greed, plain and simple. But why? Why had he allowed it to consume him?
Janiah, who had been quietly observing the exchange, could see the storm brewing inside Jabr. She sensed the need to intervene before things spiraled further. Her voice, calm yet firm, cut through the tension. “If there’s nothing being accomplished here, that means we need a change. We’ll go out this evening and see Dandy and his family.”
Her suggestion was both an olive branch and a challenge. She knew that seeing Dandy, who seemed to have everything together—who had become the very image of what Jabr wasn’t—would force Jabr to confront some uncomfortable truths. It wasn’t about rubbing salt in the wound, but about facing what he was avoiding.
Jabr nodded in silent agreement, his eyes still on his plate. He mumbled to himself, almost inaudibly, “Not this again.” The words were loaded with a mixture of dread and resignation. Dandy represented both an old friendship and a painful reminder of his own perceived failures—a mirror reflecting what could have been if he had made different choices. He wasn’t sure he was ready to face that reflection yet, but deep down, he knew that avoiding it hadn’t brought him any closer to peace.
Jomana watched him, her face softening just a bit. She could see that he was struggling, even if she didn’t fully understand why. She wanted to push him, to force the truth out, but she also knew that sometimes, the most you could do was wait and hope that the person you loved would find their way back to you. Janiah’s suggestion hung in the air, a lifeline for an otherwise sinking ship.
The rest of the meal passed in a strained quiet. The ice between them hadn’t thawed, but perhaps, by evening, they might find a way to chip away at it—one small piece at a time.
Jomana’s stomach churned violently, her body betraying her once more. She leaned over the kitchen sink, her thin fingers gripping the cold, chipped porcelain for support. She heaved, losing what little breakfast she’d managed to force down, the sour taste stinging her throat. Tears streamed down her cheeks, not just from the retching but from the deep exhaustion settling into her bones. She felt fragile, like glass stretched too thin, ready to shatter with just a touch. With trembling hands, she wiped her mouth and turned the tap, letting the water wash away the evidence of her misery. Her tears fell silently, mingling with the water, and she let out a soft, broken sob.
Her breath hitched as she made her way back up the narrow, creaking stairs, each step a slow, painful climb, like an ascent into a world where she no longer had control. She wanted to disappear under the blankets of their bed, to shut out the world, if only for a moment. As she reached the top, she glanced back down at the dim kitchen below, where she could hear Jabr and Janiah’s voices murmuring. She longed to feel his arms around her, to have him understand, but she knew he was lost in his own labyrinth of worries.
Meanwhile, downstairs, the morning light slanted through the windows, casting long shadows across the worn kitchen table. Janiah carefully poured her coffee, the aroma filling the room, and set it down before sitting across from Jabr. She leaned on the table, her elbow pressing into the wood, her chin cradled in her palm. Her eyes, sharp despite her years, searched his face. “Jabr,” she began slowly, her voice like gravel softened by time, “you don’t know much about your grandfather.”
Jabr blinked, startled out of his own tangled thoughts. He nodded, more out of politeness than understanding, his mind still half with Jomana and the faint sound of her footsteps upstairs.
“He came, or rather, he was brought to this house in January 1897 by the American Mission Board,” Janiah continued. She paused, letting the weight of the years sink between them. “He was a good, sweet man, but he was no missionary. When he and your grandmother arrived, they were both sick with despair at their assigned fate. Your grandmother tried to adapt. With my help, she kept the family fed, but that’s about all we could manage. Your grandfather, though… he could hardly rise from a chair. He was paralyzed with the dread of the life he thought he was meant to lead.”
Jabr listened, his gaze drifting to the cracks in the wall behind her. He’d heard snippets of this before, bits and pieces like fragments of a broken mirror reflecting a life he never knew. He remembered finding those Bibles sent as gifts for the Kuwaitis, their covers rotted and peeling from years of neglect, pages yellowed and warped from the unforgiving climate. They were still upstairs, somewhere, wrapped in the tinfoil they’d come in, useless relics from a past that had never made sense to him.
“They brought with them a box of English Bibles,” Janiah said with a sigh, her lips curling into a wry smile. “What use were those? No one here spoke English back then. Forget reading the things. The real work, the real need, was beyond them. They were lost here, as much as you might feel lost now.”
Jabr shifted uncomfortably. “And they just… gave up?” he asked, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice.
“They stayed as long as they could—too long, in fact. They were supposed to be a promise, the Mission Board’s guarantee to send real medical missionaries. Finally, your grandparents admitted to themselves that they couldn’t manage it here. They packed up what little they had and returned to England.”
He felt a hollow pit forming in his stomach, a mix of shame and resentment. “But we’re still here. Father stayed. He managed, didn’t he?”
“Your father, Pliny, yes. He took to the Arab ways, learned the language, made friends. But your grandparents, they couldn’t adapt. Your grandfather wasn’t the preacher he thought he’d be. The Mission Board chose him because he was already failing back in England. When he returned, he realized he wasn’t cut out for preaching or foreign missions. It broke him, Jabr.”
Jabr stared at her, the lines on her face deepening in the light. He wanted to ask why she was telling him this, why now, but he could sense the answer forming in the silence between her words. Was this a warning? A lesson? A mirror held up to his own life, his own paralyzing fears.
“When we went to England for a time,” Janiah continued, her voice softer now, “your grandfather had settled into an accounting job. He was better with numbers than souls. He and your grandmother found peace in a small walk-up flat, far from the desert, the dust, and the pulpit.”
Janiah rose from the table, her bones creaking as she moved. She began washing the dishes with slow, deliberate strokes, her back to him. Jabr remained at the table, feeling small and exposed, as if he were sitting under the judgment of generations. The weight of her words settled over him like a heavy shroud.
After what felt like an eternity, he pushed his chair back and stood. He moved quietly beside her, picking up a towel to dry the dishes. They worked side by side, in silence, their hands moving in a slow, steady rhythm, each lost in the echoes of their own thoughts.
