The monastery had always been a place of quiet peace for me, but I never imagined it could be a place of joy.
When I first told Mother Superior Mostel that I wished to become a nun one day, her eyes sparkled like stars caught in a calm night. "Salma," she said softly, "there is joy in choosing your path. There is joy in belonging."
At thirteen, the day she took me into her care, something inside me blossomed. I was no longer just Salma — the nameless, the Arab, the girl who came from nowhere. I was Salma Mostel, her daughter in spirit, her joy made visible.
I remember the moment she wrapped her arms around me and whispered, "You are mine now, and I am yours." For the first time, I had a maa — a mother — and that was everything.
Mother Superior laughed often, a sound like gentle bells ringing through the halls. She found joy in small things — a well-tended rose, a morning prayer, a child's smile. And soon, her joy became mine.
The other nuns smiled differently at me, no longer just with kindness, but with something deeper — respect and love. I was her daughter, and her joy lifted me higher than any dream.
Sometimes, when the sun was low and the sky painted in soft pinks, she would hold my hand and say, "Salma, remember this — joy is a gift, but it is also a choice. Choose joy, even when the world feels heavy."
And I did.
Because at last, I had a home.
At last, I had maa.
What more could I want?