Maybe, that’s really it..

My husband and I have wasted more than two thousand dollars on two suitcases for over six months now. Maybe my darling therapist, Kane, was right and write that I should have let it go a long time ago. Clearly, I’m struggling to do so.

It’s just not that easy for me during this almost solitary iteration of my life. Those suitcases? They represent the principles I live my life by: honoring the past, savoring memories, collating my history with the respect with which I remember and cherish my family daily. And most importantly, the contents in those suitcases are representational of what I believe about true love.

Having lost everything in The Palisades fires including my dignity (more on that later), my husband from whom I have been separated for a very long time, casually mentioned in January 2025, I had left a couple of closets containing my personal effects in his grade two listed in Exeter, Devon. In the trauma of the fires and my home erased by embers, I couldn’t quite think what of any value I had left in Britain. I did suddenly think all of the things I had preserved since I was a small child were flung across multiple continents and several time zones. For example, when I sold my Las Vegas home reluctantly based on affordability in 2016, I was so bereft to no longer have the security of a home, I walked away, entrusting a childhood friend, Lydia, to broker the deal. Once that was done, I instructed another friend, Doris, to go through the house to decide if any of the items from my collection of Louis Vuitton down to LV playing cards (as any girl from Las Vegas should have) to the furniture and china collection were valuable enough to donate to her church. I thought (clearly incorrectly) the few things left that I had valued were lost and gone forever finally with the fires and maybe I would learn to make a new start with nothing.

“I don’t remember what I left behind, Sahir. Can I see it?”

A FaceTime call followed with him flinging open what felt like a portal as though our union was based on The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. The discovery left me momentarily breathless. I had truly forgotten and so many memories came flooding back with that virtual tour. However, I was careful to suppress my emotions as my husband, having studied for his MsC in Criminology at University of Surrey, had a particular cruel streak evident when minimizing my feelings, which always felt a bit as though he was diminishing my worth. But, the worth of what was unearthed? I couldn’t put into words my excitement or the wave of nostalgia that washed over me.

My mother was a clotheshorse, which made perfect sense in the way she presented to the world. She was positively stunning to look at, which was only enhanced by what a sincerely beautiful heart beat inside of her. She studied Interior Design in Toronto and her love of construction extended to her tasteful homes, especially evident in the clothing in her closets. Like any well versed connoisseur, she appreciated fashion nuances like the way Gianfranco Ferre infused his understanding of architecture into his memorable garments crafted with structural lines, geometry, and precise tailoring. I remember after she died, my sister in law complained bitterly one of the things that took the longest to discard from my mother’s life were the endless, month over month for decades towers of Architectural Digest copies that populated my mother’s living room. My sister in law clearly didn’t get my mother in life or death; she wasn’t a fan. Not that I fully comprehended her way either, but I respected her process because she was as much my friend as she was my mother. I am loathe to go shopping and truly look as though I washed up on shore most of the time. Conversely, my mother loved to shop and would often bribe me with lunch at Neiman Marcus’ Fresh Market if I would accompany her to Beverly Hills. After enjoying my tuna sandwich with mango chutney, I knew where on the same floor and in what section of dressing rooms I would find my mother. She would often extend her left foot for height when assessing whatever she was wearing in the dressing room mirror. She was particularly fond of Japanese designers from Kenzo to Yohji Yammamoto. Her favorite was Issey Miyake and I was always floored when I asked how much. Invariably, she, with the innocence of a child, replied something like, “Only six hundred for the top and eight fifty for the pants.”

The figures are neither exact nor adjusted for inflation, but her wording I can still hear in my head. She also loved Yves Saint Laurent, favoring his pieces more when she was young and living in the arctic conditions of Toronto where she was in her 20s, often clad in boots, jeans, and a fur coat. My father kept that fur coat forty years after they purchased it in his closet and a pair of her reading glasses in the pocket after she died. He spoke so infrequently of his loss, but now, in dementia and on numerous occasions, has mistaken me for my mother. He speaks in that shorthand that is reserved for lovers and nauseating for the child from that union, calling me both Marian and his wife. From time to time, he speaks to me as though I am her and about me as though I am still 12. Again, my darling Kane advised me not to correct him in his condition and I obliged as per his therapeutic knowledge. But now, in real time, two of her YSL’s shirts were hanging in the Exeter closet next to the last pink cashmere sweater she would wear to St. John’s in Santa Monica when we could no longer deny she was dying, but were both too petrified to acknowledge it.

After she died and the architect walked over to me suggesting he knew me and then subsequently inviting me to a black tie event, I was at a loss for what to wear. In the weeks leading up to the event, we texted furiously all day long which was particularly touching since he was obviously in the middle of his work day. The excitement with which he shared he had decided on a tuxedo was childlike and endearing. My friends, Lawrence and Christine, came over when I was flummoxed over which dress to don with Lawrence joking if I didn’t want to be underdressed in contrast to him, I might want to consider a white wedding gown. Instead, I went with the black Issey Miyake sweater I was always begging my mother to borrow as the cut was unlike anything I could afford and a tight, black suede floor length skirt that fishtailed at the bottom. I finished the look off with Indian jewelry and a beautiful green and gold shawl from Hyderabad. I didn’t expect the architect to pick me up in his truck or to have to help me get in as a result of what I was wearing. I didn’t expect his face to crumple in sincere, shared agony for how heartbroken, alone and scared I was in my life at that moment or how softly he encouraged that if I had success selling scripts before I should be able to do it again. I admitted I didn’t know how to do it without my mother or how to fill the gaping hole in my heart without her or my nephews, who my sister in law refused to allow me to see after my mother died when I was afforded the joy of hugging and kissing them daily since the day they were born. And I didn’t know that pink cashmere sweater of my mother’s I would be wearing the last time I was alone in his company. We sat on the couch I donated when I sold the house with my leg oddly draped over his. I couldn’t remove it because he placed it strategically my black jeans to his blue with his hand on my knee not moving it for hours. In that endless conversation, it was glaring. I realized he was too young for marriage and I was too old to wait as that window to become a mother was narrowing with every passing day. My grandfather was beyond heartbroken things didn’t work out and putting a lot of pressure on me. He didn’t want to alarm me as we were fused in friendship, the two standing pals left after our other buddies, my grandmother and my mother, died prematurely. He said he didn’t want to leave the world not knowing there was a man who loved me as much as he did to protect my heart, what was I going to do? I felt particularly guilty when one of his friends called me and asked who the architect was. I was incensed and exclaimed my grandfather was historically so bad at keeping secrets. His friend laughed and offered, in fairness, he said nothing. He just had written out in Arabic a page of prayer and the only word in English on that page was the architect’s name.

My subsequent and only marriage was transactional on both sides. My husband heartbroken over the demise of his first marriage was an admirer of my Scottish Syrian Colonel in The British Army fighting alongside Gandhi G grandfather on reputation. Without any emotional investment but more to hedge our bets and broken hearts, he suggested we could get married with my grandfather officiating as he was hoping to do since I was born and then figure out if we worked later. I basically agreed to put my grandfather’s mind at ease who knowing my heart, often asked if I was happy or why didn’t it seem like I was satisfied with my union. It was no secret to my husband I wasn’t and he and I have had endless conversations about the architect and how stunningly respectfully he treated me, thereby making it untenable for me to accept anything less.

That’s why I want that sweater. And my wellies. And the scrapbook I have been building for thirty years. FedEx has been thwarting that plan since my husband reluctantly, after stalling for close to a year, sent the two suitcases. I paid for the first journey and my belongings landed in Memphis where they languished for five months in customs before I had to pay to have them sent back to Exeter. My anguished tears as much about the suitcases as they are about my father inspired my husband to absorb the cost of sending a second time. I am not sure if he is filling out the customs forms incorrectly or if FedEx has a second successful industry of cruelty and mind f#ckery I know nothing about in that they sent my things back again even though my husband contracted a third party to help things move smoothly across The Atlantic.

My darling Kane said let it go, Firdosi, and just push for the divorce. You are not going to meet your happily ever after until you do that and he would know as he has been joyfully ensconced for fifty one years. And maybe, deep down, the truth is, I don’t believe that possibility truly exists. I don’t know how to fall in love without being surrounded by the people who love and support me with whom I have always shared my excitement over kissing and hand holding. Dad is the only one left and even we are not in the same space as much as I would prefer post fires. Sometimes, when he’s completely lucid, he inquires about me getting remarried, which is very considerate as I try to smile while witnessing him fading. Maybe I should be grateful for all of the love I have known in my life and call it a day. It’s much safer for my heart that way and less emotional collateral damage to absorb post fires.

I still have the sweater even though it’s not actually in my possession. It exists in real time the same way the scrapbook does. The oversized, green leather scrapbook (purchased in the 90s in London and forced into a suitcase before you had to pay outrageously for extra baggage and before I was carrying so much emotional baggage) contains notes from my childhood love, Michael, and birthday cards. I kept the stickers from the plastic Starbucks orders when Malek would insist we sit outside so he could smoke and he would encourage me to wear his brown, suede jacket for warmth. Imad marveled when I built that scrapbook and shared it with wow, you were as beautiful in the fourth grade as you are now. Our decade together is remembered fondly and he was only one of two exes who came to The Palisades for condolences after my mother died; his wife, Zeyna, could not have been more compassionate. I kept the Variety article when Patrick advanced to vice president of production at a Universal based production company since he thought he wanted to marry me when we were young and all sorts of other keepsakes from moments I was so blessed to live and love.

I have long contended human beings are made up simply of water and memories. Post fires, I am finally confident mine will leave me fulfilled albeit single in a healthy way and nowhere near bordering on Miss Havisham status as my younger brother would insult during the worst of our arguments. And even then…tis better to have lived and loved…