The Halal Butcher of Dearborn | جزار ديربورن الحلال
"America's largest Arab community. A butcher shop that's been there for generations. The widow who inherits it—and the customer who keeps coming back."
The Halal Butcher of Dearborn
جزار ديربورن الحلال
Hamad's Halal Meats opened in 1962.
My father-in-law's father started it. Now I'm the one behind the counter.
Widow at forty-three, running a legacy I never expected.
I'm Samira.
Lebanese-American, married into the Hamad family at twenty. My husband died last year—heart attack, no warning. Left me with the shop.
And Omar, who comes in every Thursday.
He's fifty.
Palestinian, teaches at University of Michigan-Dearborn. Always orders the same thing—lamb chops, Arabic style.
"Marhaba, Samira."
"Marhaba." I start wrapping his order without being asked. "How was class?"
We've been doing this for months.
Small talk across the counter. He asks about my kids; I ask about his research. Normal customer service.
Except for the way he looks at me.
"Can I ask something personal?"
It's late. The shop is about to close.
"Depends on how personal."
"Would you have coffee with me? Somewhere not here?"
"Omar, I'm a widow. This is Dearborn. People talk."
"People always talk. That's not a reason."
"What's a reason then?"
"That you don't want to. Do you want to?"
I shouldn't want to.
It's too soon. The community would judge. My in-laws would be horrified.
"Yes."
Coffee becomes dinner.
Always in Ann Arbor—far enough that Dearborn eyes can't see. We talk about everything. His dissertation on Palestinian poetry. My unexpected life as a butcher.
"You're good at it," he observes.
"I learned. Had to."
"Learning is its own skill."
"What are we doing?"
We're in his car, outside a restaurant. Respectable distance maintained.
"Getting to know each other."
"We've been getting to know each other for three months."
"Then we're doing well."
"My in-laws would disapprove."
"Your in-laws want you to remarry. I've heard them at the mosque."
"They want me to remarry someone they choose."
"And I'm not that someone."
"You're Palestinian."
"Half Palestinian. Half Jordanian. Does it matter?"
"It shouldn't."
"But?"
"But Dearborn is complicated."
"Dearborn is family. Family is always complicated." He turns to me. "The question is whether you want to try."
The first kiss is in his car.
Like teenagers, hiding from parents. The absurdity makes us both laugh.
"We're too old for this," I giggle.
"We're exactly the right age."
We become experts at discretion.
His apartment in Ann Arbor. My house when the kids are at their grandparents'. Stolen moments that feel increasingly necessary.
"I'm falling for you," he confesses.
"I fell already."
He undresses me in afternoon light.
The widow who runs a butcher shop, finally being seen as a woman.
"Beautiful."
"I'm not young—"
"You're timeless."
He worships me slowly.
With the attention of an academic studying a primary source. I come undone under his patience.
"Ya Rabb—Omar—"
"Right there?"
"Aiwa—don't stop—"
We make love while Dearborn goes about its business.
The community we're hiding from, just miles away.
"We should tell them," he says after.
"Tell them what?"
"That I'm going to marry you."
"That's presumptuous."
"Is it wrong?"
"...No."
"Then it's not presumptuous. It's planning."
One year later
We told them.
The reaction was... mixed. His family welcomed me. Mine was skeptical. Dearborn talked—of course it talked.
But we're still here.
The shop is still called Hamad's.
Omar helps on weekends now. Turns out academics can learn to butcher.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Happier than I thought possible."
"Even with the gossip?"
"Gossip fades. This doesn't."
He pulls me into the back room.
Where the meat hangs, where it all started.
"Quick," he murmurs.
"The shop's still open—"
"Then be quiet."
Alhamdulillah.
For butcher shops that endure.
For customers who come back.
For Dearborn, complicated and home.
The End.