CHAPTER 1
Why the Fuck Do I Do This to Myself?
Tarek was done with women.
› He wasn’t angry with them. Not all of them, anyway. He didn’t think they were complicated, impossible to understand, or any of the other bullshit he heard men repeat at the bar after their second drink.
The problem wasn’t women. It was probably him. And the surprising thing was that he didn’t give a damn anymore.
He was fifty. At that age, a man should know himself well enough to know when to stop trying.
Tarek had tried. More than once.
He’d had short relationships, long relationships, and one that had lasted long enough to convince him that maybe, against all odds, it might actually work. It hadn’t.
One had told him he worked too much. True. Another had said he didn’t talk enough about his feelings.
Probably true. One claimed he turned every serious conversation into a joke. Absolutely true.
The last one had spent almost two hours explaining that he put up emotional walls. Tarek had listened.
Really. He had even managed not to look at his phone.
In the end she’d said, “I don’t know how to reach you anymore.”
Tarek had thought about it for a few seconds. “So we’re breaking up?”
Judging by her reaction, that hadn’t been the emotionally correct conclusion. But it had been the practical one.
Since then, he’d established one very simple rule.
No women.
Naturally, they continued to exist. He wished them every happiness. From a safe distance.
He had a job. A house. Three children.
The children weren’t his. The children were his. Both things were true.
They were Karim’s children, his younger brother’s.
Karim had been pretty much Tarek’s opposite. Short hair that was always perfect. Glasses. Shirt. Jacket.
Shoes that looked as though they’d just come out of the box even after a full day.
Anne, Karim’s wife, had possessed the same inexplicable talent for order. Their house often smelled of something fresh from the oven. Cookies went in jars. Photographs in albums. Bills in folders.
Then, three years earlier, Karim and Anne had gone out. The children had stayed with him. Just for a few hours.
“Don’t wait up for us.”
“As if.”
“And don’t give Sami chips for dinner.”
“He had a sandwich too.”
Karim had looked at him. “He’s six.”
“Exactly. He’s growing.”
Anne had laughed. “There’s everything you need in the fridge.”
“I know how to feed three children.”
Karim had shaken his head. “If they’re all still alive when I get back, I’ll give you a round of applause.”
“Fuck you.”
Karim had smiled. Then he’d closed the door.
That had been the last time.
The accident had happened a few hours later.
Yasmine had been eleven and had understood before anyone found the courage to tell her. Sami had been six. Nuri barely one.
Tarek was supposed to keep them until morning.
Three years later, he was still there.
He had left his own home and moved into theirs. He wasn’t going to take their parents and their home away from three children in the same week.
Yasmine was fourteen now. She was beautiful, even when she wore that fucking black lipstick.
Sami was nine. He was a little chubby, wore glasses, and knew things about subjects Tarek couldn’t even remember studying as an adult.
Nuri was four. To him, Tarek was simply Dad. He loved superheroes and owned a worrying number of animal-shaped pajamas.
Tarek was convinced he’d done a brilliant job with them. Not good. Brilliant.
That evening he opened the door at seven eighteen.
“Dad!”
“No.”
Nuri, dressed as a dinosaur, stopped. “But I haven’t said anything.”
“I’ve been in the house for four seconds. Whatever you want, the answer is no until I get my shoes off.”
“I’m hungry.”
Yasmine appeared behind him. “Can I go out on Saturday?”
“Where?”
“Out.”
“Excellent description.”
Sami appeared with a tablet, and a moment later he was correcting Tarek on the number of people living on the planet.
Nuri tugged at Tarek’s shirt. “I’m hungry. Really hungry. I could die.”
“Five minutes.”
“Three.”
“Are you bargaining over how long it takes me to take my shoes off?”
Nuri thought about it. “Four.”
“Go away.”
A little later, Tarek grabbed a pot. “Okay. Who wants pasta?”
Three voices started talking almost at once.
The house was noisy. Messy. Full.
Tarek looked at the three kids.
Who the fuck was making him complicate his life even more?
No one.
And that was perfect.
