There were multiple flashes and I suddenly zoned out and taken to a time when I was a young girl.
"Where is Papa?" I inquired. She sat there on the sofa, knitting and watching tv at the same time.
"I told you, he has gone to get the groceries. You are so impatient. He will be back anytime.
I turned away from my mother and pressed my nose against the window pane. It was a cold winter day and my nose left an imprint.
Suddenly I saw the headlights of his car come onto the driveway. Hurriedly, I ran over to the stairs and made my way down in my pink nightie. It ravelled in between my legs and I had to hike it up over my knees to get down the stairs. He came through the door with paper bags.
"Go call your mother to help me," he said. I grabbed one of the bags to find it was quite heavy.
"No my dear. The milk is too heavy. Go call your mother. You take up the bread."
I shook my head and grabbed the jug of milk. "Papa, I am a strong girl! I can help you and take the milk," I said stubbornly as he and I played tug-of-war with the plastic milk jug. With bags in his other arm, he had no choice but to let go of the milk. I hauled it up the flight of stairs and panted upon reaching the top step. I beamed proudly and held it up as high as I could (which was close to my chin). But because the milk was cold and upon being in room temperature, a thin film of condensation had formed on the outside, rendering it slippery. I lost my grip and it fell from my hands, bouncing along each step of the stairs until it reached the bottom, where it cracked and splattered everywhere. There was milk on the floor, on the door and all over my father's dress pants.
I shuddered in fear and fell to my knees in pure and utter horror. I continued to stare at the floor where the jug lay in pieces and milk formed several puddles. I heard my mother come up behind me and gasp. I wanted to show him what a strong girl I was--to make him proud that I was his helper. Instead, I let him down and was about to suffer the consequences. My mother ran into the kitchen to grab a towel but I remain frozen at the top of the stairs. I could not look at him. Oddly, I did not hear him speak one word. And then slowly, I heard him climb the stairs, one footstep at a time. My heartbeat thundered in my chest and I thought that this was it.
He reached the top and sat down beside me and sighed. He lifted my chin with his hand and I stared up at him while large teardrops rolled down my face. He looked at me and smiled.
"Sometimes your dreams are too big and you want too much too fast. Slow down and grow up first," he said quietly.
"I am sorry Papa! I thought I could do it," I exclaimed and buried my head into his chest. My mother walked past us down the stairs while I cried in my father's arms. He stroked my hair to soothe me and then picked me up and put me into my bed.
I remember him waiting by my door and watching me as I dozed off to sleep. He may have been a strict father when I was growing up but I knew deep down inside that I would always be his favorite little girl, always trying to impress him and make him proud of me.
The flash from the camera continued and I came back to the hall. My husband looked over to see where I was looking and then immediately understood my pained expression. He took my veil and pulled it across my front as a way to protect me. It was no use. To see my father overcome with such emotion was the signal to release my floodgate. The whole night was surreal until this moment. Now I realized my life would change when I left the hall and moved in with my new family. No matter how hard I tried to push it back in the recesses of my mind, I suddenly became cognisant of the fact that my situation had become immensely real.
The photographer continued to click away but my tears propelled the end of the evening. My mother-in-law gave hand signals to her family and friends to wrap it up and start the procession outside. With a group of about thirty people left, I was told by my aunt to say goodbye to my family. The ceremony of the bride leaving her family is called Rukhsati and is almost always symbolized with the entire bridal party bidding the bride a final farewell and handing over to the groom's side. The Holy Quran is held over the couple as they leave--to leave in God's name and start a new life with Him in rememberance. From that point to the limo, everything was a blur. I only remember the last person I hugged. And that was my father.
"You grew up too fast. I brought you home from the hospital yesterday and tonight you are leaving me. It was only a blink of an eye," he cried in my ear. I pushed him back gently and smiled back wearily.
"Remember what you said, Dad. Don't cry over spilt milk," I winked, trying desperately to lighten the mood. He smiled sadly and kissed my forehead.
I got into the limo and looked out of the window.
I did not feel like a young woman. I did not feel like a bride. I was still that little girl, in the pink nightie, trying to convince her father she could be that strong girl who would do anything for her Papa....
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