She walked downstairs, her slippers whispering on the mosaic tiles. Her mother was pouring tea. When she looked up and saw Rarah, the silver tray almost slipped from her hands. Her eyes widened, then softened, then shimmered with tears. She didn’t clap or shout. She simply opened her arms.
Rarah walked into them. The fabric of her new hijab brushed against her mother’s cheek. rarah hijab
All her life, the women in her family—her mother, her aunties, her cousin Leila—had worn the hijab. For them, it was as natural as breathing. But Rarah saw it as a riddle. A beautiful, complicated, terrifying riddle. She walked downstairs, her slippers whispering on the