Novels by leena mohamad

The pain is unbearable. It’s been a whole day since my water broke, and still, nothing. My body is shaking, drenched in sweat, my muscles screaming in protest with every contraction. The nurses hover around me, their faces tight with worry. I hear them whispering to my mother-in-law—something about a c-section. No. I don’t want that. I wanted to do this naturally. I wanted to be strong. But I’m not strong anymore. I’m broken. My mother-in-law tells them to wait. Just one more hour, she says. Maybe I’ll push through. Maybe my body will finally listen. The hour passes in a blur of agony. I’m so tired. My vision swims, the edges darkening. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. My limbs feel like lead, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I’m slipping. My head hearts even more than my body. Then I hear a voice. It was Soft but firm. Telling me to be strong. I could feel a hand gripping mine, warm and steady. "Be brave, Dema. You can do this." I don’t know who it is—maybe my mother in l

I sigh, tossing my phone onto the couch beside me. Another dull afternoon trapped inside. The walls feel like they’re closing in on me, but what can I do? The doctor said no unnecessary outings, no stress—just rest. Rest. Like I haven’t been resting for months already. My fingers drum against my swollen belly, frustration simmering beneath my skin. I reach for the remote, flipping through channels mindlessly. Nothing holds my attention. Just stupid talk shows and reruns of dramas I’ve already seen. Then—I got a message. A message from Rola. I grab my phone, grateful for any distraction. It’s a video. Probably some gossip or event she’s at, rubbing it in that she’s out there living while I’m stuck here like a prisoner in my own home. I tap the screen, and the video loads. It’s some commercial event—flashy lights, cameras, people dressed to impress. And there he is. My Rami. My lips twitch into a small smile at first. He looks good, confident, charming the crowd like always. I s

A sharp pain jolts me awake, my breath catching in my throat. I clutch my swollen belly, waiting—hoping—for it to fade. But then another one comes, tighter this time, and panic prickles under my skin. Is this it? I fumble for my phone, hands trembling as I dial Rami first. He answers on the third ring, voice thick with sleep. "Dema? What's wrong?" "I—I think it's happening," I whisper, my throat tight. I can almost hear him springing out of bed. "I'm coming right now. Call my mother." The next call is a blur—my mother-in-law's calm voice cutting through my fear, promising she'll be here soon. By the time I hang up, sweat beads at my temples. She arrives before Rami does, her steady hands guiding me to sit while she calls an ambulance. "Better safe than sorry," she murmurs, smoothing my hair back. The ride to the hospital is a haze of contractions and nervous breaths. Rami meets us there, his face pale, his grip crushing my fingers as the doctors check me. Then—the verdict

The car ride to the doctor’s office is quiet, but Rami’s fingers keep tapping against the steering wheel—a nervous habit. I glance at him, amused. "You’re more nervous than I am," I say, resting a hand on his arm. "Relax. It’s just a check-up." He exhales sharply, gripping the wheel tighter. "I know, I know. But I’ve never seen the baby before." I smile, squeezing his arm. "You’ll love it." When we get called in, Rami’s leg won’t stop bouncing as I lie back on the exam table. The doctor spreads the cold gel over my stomach, and Rami leans forward, eyes locked on the screen. Then—there it is. A tiny, flickering heartbeat. A little blur of limbs, curled up safe inside me. "Everything looks perfect," the doctor says, smiling. I was relieved. I was worried because I haven't been sleeping well lately so I thought it might affect the baby. But when I turn to Rami, his eyes are glistening. His lips press together, trembling, and then—tears. Actual tears rolling down his face.

The mall was buzzing with energy, the kind that usually overwhelmed me, but today, it felt different. Today, every pastel-colored onesie, every tiny pair of socks, every frilly little dress made my heart swell. I’m having a girl. The thought still sent shivers of joy down my spine. Dalia held up a miniature sunhat with a giggle. “Look at this! She’s going to be the most stylish baby in the city.” Tala, ever the practical one, nudged me toward a rack of soft cotton bodysuits. “You need basics too, habibti. She’ll live in these.” I ran my fingers over the tiny fabric, imagining my daughter—my daughter*—wearing them. It still didn’t feel real. After everything, after all the fear and uncertainty, here I was, surrounded by love, preparing for her. “We should start planning the baby shower,” Dalia said, already scrolling through her phone. “Think pink and gold? Or more floral?” I laughed, shaking my head. “As long as there’s good food, I don’t care.” Tala smirked. “Spoken like

Four months have passed, and the nursery is almost ready—soft yellow walls, tiny clothes folded neatly in the drawers, and a bassinet waiting for our little one. Rami and I sit on the couch, a baby name book spread across my lap. His arm is draped over my shoulder, his fingers absently tracing circles on my skin. "Malik is strong," he says, pointing at the name. "But Leen… that’s beautiful too." I smile, leaning into him. "We still have time to decide, besides, we don't know whether it's a boy or a girl." He sighs, shifting slightly. "Dema… I’ve been thinking." His voice is quieter now, serious. "I want to make more time for you. For the baby. I’ve been spending time at work too much during our marriage, and I stay out too late… that's going to change now." My chest tightens—hope, relief, disbelief all tangled together. "That’s… great news, Rami." He turns to me, eyes earnest. "I mean it. I promise—I’m going to be a good husband. A good father." The words are sweet, but I’