Bitter Orange Tree: A Novel

by Jokha Alharthi

Did my grandmother’s love set conditions? Her love just seemed there, simple, like the air that meant I could breathe, without thinking about it; given freely and generously, bestowed as the sun gives its light, freely enough to allow me to see my way ahead. Her love had to be deserved, it was true; but it left no obligation. My grandmother never made me feel—or made my father or brother or sister feel—that we were in debt to her. We deserved her as we deserved to be alive, and breathing, and turning our faces to the sun.