I remember crying, wanting to ride with him in the motorcade. I must have caused some confusion. After all, Druze tradition says nothing about a bridegroom’s offspring. His three girls stayed behind, waving our brief good-byes to all the men in the cars. They were leaving and bringing back a bride. I was carried by our nanny, Violet, and cried onto her shoulder as the blaring car horns became unbearable. Sometimes I wonder what it must have felt like for my stepmother. A girl is supposed to be ecstatic on her wedding day. According to tradition, getting married is what we live for. Hope your wedding day is soon, they say. To young girls even, barely ten years old. May we all celebrate your wedding day. What did it feel like for her, though? She waits at her father’s house, all dressed up in white. The men in her family all proud, happy, one less mouth to feed, one less honor to defend. All parade in front of her, congratulating her, sauntering away, getting drunk.
