I got into a car crash. My husband dropped off our daughters to my MIL while he rushed to see me in the hospital. The next morning, he brought the kids there.
Upon seeing me, my 6-year-old busted into tears. She then said Granny hoped I wouldn’t make it. I thought I misheard her.
“Sweetheart, what did you say?” I asked, my voice hoarse from the oxygen and trauma. She sniffled and repeated it. “Granny said she hoped you wouldn’t make it.
Because Daddy would be happier.”
My husband, Tarek, went pale. I looked over at him, but he was frozen—one hand on our toddler’s backpack, mouth slightly open, like he’d just been punched. My older daughter, Zari, didn’t seem confused.
Just sad. Honest. My chest hurt more from that moment than the actual impact of the crash.
It was just a fender bender on paper—a delivery van ran a red light and clipped the front of my car, spinning me into a pole. I had a fractured rib and a concussion, but nothing life-threatening. Nothing that should’ve made anyone relieved I wasn’t dead.
The doctor came in right then, so I didn’t get to ask anything else. But the silence from Tarek as he led the girls out said plenty. That night I couldn’t sleep.
Not because of pain. But because of that sentence: Daddy would be happier. See, I’ve never been close with Tarek’s mom, Jamila.
She’s always seen me as the “loud” wife—too opinionated, too ambitious, too Americanized. She’s old-school Palestinian, and I tried so hard in the beginning. I learned Arabic phrases, cooked her dishes, even wore a hijab around her out of respect even though I don’t wear one normally.
Nothing worked. She nitpicked how I raised the girls. She hated that I worked full-time.
She once told Tarek that if I really cared about my family, I wouldn’t have an “outside” job. But Tarek always defended me. Always.
Until… lately. Maybe the past year or so, I noticed he started saying things like “Just ignore her, babe, you know how she is,” instead of actually standing up for me. His tone got more neutral.
Like he didn’t disagree, just didn’t want to deal with it. The next morning, I asked him about what Zari said. He sighed hard, like the air leaving his lungs carried a truth he didn’t want to say.
“She misunderstood,” he said. But his eyes darted. “She’s six, Tarek.
She doesn’t lie like that,” I whispered. He rubbed his forehead. “Jamila said… she said she hoped if you didn’t survive, at least you wouldn’t suffer.
That’s what she meant.”
That still didn’t make sense. That wasn’t what Zari said. And the weirdest part?
Jamila texted me once, just one line:
“Rest and heal. May God do what’s best.”
What does that even mean when your daughter-in-law is in the ICU? Two weeks later, I was home.
Bruised, but okay. And Jamila invited us over for dinner. I told Tarek I wasn’t ready.
He said he’d take the girls anyway, just for an hour. So I stayed home alone—and caved. I asked Zari again, gently, about what she heard Granny say.
She didn’t even blink. “Granny was whispering on the phone to someone. I was on the stairs and she didn’t see me.”
I asked if she knew who Granny was talking to.
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