After The Honeymoon

18. Missing - 1

"Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family: Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one". - Jane Howard

Madiha

I had left this apartment with this very carry-on bag umpteen times this year. Leaving this place, walking away from the man I loved, had always been accompanied with sorrow and sadness. Yet, there had always been the next weekend to look forward to. There was hope and a shared belief that one day he and I would not have to do this anymore.

Today as I walked out of this apartment, my heart was shattered, my feet felt sluggish like molten lead, and my mind was in the darkest place it had ever been in. Every part of me had been hit by the same realization the moment Omar asked me to go to my parent's house - I may never step back into this apartment again or be the wife of a man I loved more than I had words to describe.

And I only had one person to blame - me. 

Omar was right. I could have stopped making excuses and just told him the truth. I should have trusted him enough to know that he would support me in whatever I did. But most of all I should have believed in us and what we had.

I was standing in the elevator trying to dry my tears that wouldn't stop flowing. Hoping, that the elevator would be empty so no one would notice my pathetic state. But even before the elevator came, I had company.

"Madi? Are you crying?" A familiar voice asked. 

Please, not her. Anyone but her. I pleaded silently. They went unanswered. 

"No, Mrs. Patel," I told her, hoping my curls would hide enough of my face. She was the building's biggest gossip monger, and the last thing I wanted to do was to broadcast our private matters. 

She scoffed. "I'm old, not blind or deaf." 

Though her voice was much more subdued when she placed a gnarly hand on my arm. "Did someone hurt you?"

How was I to answer that question? I wasn't physically hurt, yet every part of me was in pain anyway. From his mother's words that ripped apart my dignity and honor to Omar's agonizing silence as I walked out of the door, it felt like my soul was twisting into itself. 

"No. No one hurt me."

"Did you and Omar fight over something?" she persisted. The resumption of my tears must have given me away. Though, instead of her usual high-pitched commentary she remained surprisingly somber.  

"Do you still love him?" she asked. 

"I could never stop loving him." I spoke out loud more myself that her. 

"Then what's the problem honey? I know he loves you. You should see the way he wanders around building looking like a lost cow when you're not here.'"

I finally turned fully towards her. For once she appeared more like a seasoned, wise woman rather than a habitual purveyor of rumors. Though, she didn't stop talking. 

"Take it from someone who was married for 40 successful years before my husband died. Love is an active choice you make every single day. It is not a passive emotion. So, if the two of you need to take a break tonight, that's fine. Take the time to cool-off, think about your role in what happened, and tomorrow dust yourself off and get back to choosing love again."

The elevator came, we both got on and as usual she pushed the button for the 3rd floor.

Who the heck lives on the 3rd floor? I wondered. As if she could read my mind, she answered that question soon.