The Bethlehem Widow
"Omar, a young carpenter, takes a job restoring the home of Umm Elias, a beautiful widow whose loneliness mirrors his own."
The Bethlehem Widow
The stone house sat on a hill overlooking Bethlehem, its ancient walls holding secrets older than memory. Omar paused at the gate, wiping sweat from his brow. His uncle had arranged this job—restoration work for a wealthy widow.
"Umm Elias," his uncle had said with a strange smile. "Her husband left her everything. Be respectful. Be patient. She's... particular."
Omar had expected an ancient crone. The woman who opened the door was perhaps forty-five, with waves of dark hair streaked with silver, and eyes the color of strong Arabic coffee. Her black dress did nothing to hide curves that made Omar's mouth go dry.
"Ahlan," she said, her voice husky. Welcome. "You must be the carpenter."
The work was extensive—warped window frames, cracked ceiling beams, a staircase that groaned with each step. Omar threw himself into it, grateful for distraction from Umm Elias's presence.
But she was everywhere. Bringing him coffee with cardamom. Asking questions about his techniques. Standing too close as he explained the restoration process.
"You have good hands," she observed on the third day, watching him plane a length of olive wood.
"Shukran." Thank you.
"My husband had soft hands. He was a businessman." Her tone carried no affection. "He never built anything with them."
"You miss him?"
Her laugh was bitter. "I miss being touched. There's a difference."
Omar's plane slipped, nearly taking off a finger. When he looked up, Umm Elias was watching him with an expression that made his blood sing.
He began to notice things. The way she licked her lips when he removed his shirt to work. The unnecessary touches—her hand on his arm, his shoulder, the small of his back. The dinners she insisted he stay for, feeding him maqluba and musakhan until he could barely move.
"You're too thin," she chided, pressing another piece of chicken into his mouth with her fingers. "Kul, kul." Eat.
Her fingertip brushed his lip. Omar caught it gently between his teeth, watching her eyes darken.
"Shu 'am ta'mal?" she breathed. What are you doing?
"I don't know." He released her finger. "Forgive me."
"Don't apologize." She stood abruptly, gathering dishes with trembling hands. "Not for that."
The next morning, Omar found her crying in the garden among her jasmine bushes. The sight tore something in his chest.
"Umm Elias—"
"Samira." She wiped her eyes fiercely. "My name is Samira. I'm tired of being someone's mother, someone's widow. I want to be me again."
Omar knelt beside her, taking her hands. They were soft, uncalloused—hands that had never known labor but had known loneliness too long.
"Samira," he said, tasting the name. "You don't have to be alone."
"I'm old enough to be your mother."
"You're not my mother."
"What would people say—"
"Insa el nas." Forget people.
He kissed her then, among the jasmine and morning light. Samira stiffened, then melted against him with a sob that might have been relief or desperation or both.
They barely made it inside. Samira pulled him up the groaning stairs to her bedroom—the room he'd been forbidden to enter, the one he hadn't yet restored.
"Baddi iyak," she gasped against his mouth. I want you. "Min zaman baddi iyak." I've wanted you for so long.
Omar laid her on the silk coverlet, unwrapping her like a gift. Her body was lush, generous—breasts heavy and responsive, hips that flared like an amphora, skin scented with rose and desire.
"Beautiful," he murmured, kissing his way down her stomach. "Inti amar." You're the moon.
"Ya Allah," she moaned as his tongue found her center. "Ya Allah, ya Allah..."
He worshipped her until she shattered twice, her fingers twisting in his hair, her thighs clamping around his head. Only then did he rise over her, positioning himself at her entrance.
"Look at me," he commanded.
Her eyes opened—wet, vulnerable, burning.
"Ana hon." I'm here. "Mish rah itrakik." I'm not leaving you.
He pushed inside, and Samira cried out with something beyond pleasure. Omar moved slowly at first, savoring her tightness, the way her walls gripped him. Then faster, driven by her gasps and clawing hands.
"Aktar," she begged. More. "Aouwi." Harder.
The old bed frame protested—one more thing in this house that needed repair. But they were past caring. Samira came apart beneath him with a scream she muffled in his shoulder, and Omar followed her into oblivion.
Weeks turned to months. Omar finished the restoration slowly, finding new projects to extend his time. The townspeople whispered—of course they did—but Samira no longer cared.
"Marry me," Omar said one evening, watching the sunset paint the hills gold.
"You're young. You'll want children someday. A young wife—"
"I want you. I want to wake up in this house every morning. I want to grow old here with you."
Samira's eyes filled with tears—but she was smiling.
"Na'am," she whispered. "Yes. Alf marra na'am." A thousand times yes.
The jasmine bloomed early that year, and the old house on the hill echoed once more with laughter—and with love.