She had always imagined love as the kind she read about in books, like the love Rumi and Hafiz described in their poems. Never once had motherly love crossed her mind as her naseeb. Perhaps it was because of her relationship with Mama, the sprinkles of love she’d fought so hard for and found so lacking. Or perhaps it was because Isra had been raised to think that love was something only a man could give her, like everything else.
