On the rooftop.
At night.
Jeanne came and wrapped her arms around him from behind.
Sat beside him.
Said nothing.
Then softly:
“We’ll stay. A month.
You need to live this.
All the way through.
So later – you can live.”
And they stayed.
Jeanne helped the women, washed dishes, carried water,
started learning Kyrgyz.
The elders looked at her with respect.
The younger ones – with admiration.
“Kuwait, she’s like one of ours – even if the hair color’s different,” someone joked.
He just smiled.
A month later, at dawn, they sat on a hill.
He said:
“I don’t want to live without you.”
She replied:
“Then live with me. Always.”
There was no proposal.
They just got married.
Quietly. On his native land.
No dress. No hall.
Just a yurt, some bread, two rings.
And eyes that held eternity.
Then – back to Chicago.
But not together.
As one.
One name.
One story.
Chapter 9. Where “Always” Begins
Sometimes happiness isn’t in the ring.
It’s in how he holds your hand
while the mullah recites the prayer,
and you see a whole life in his eyes.
The morning was cold.
The air smelled of flatbread, jasmine, and mountains.
The mullah read the nikah – the marriage prayer.
He spoke words that made the heart tremble,
as if they weren’t sounds, but promises to one’s soul:
protect. forgive. stay.
Kuwait held Jeanne’s hand.
Her nails were pale.
Her lips – barely painted.
But her eyes… they shone. Like never before.
The next day – a small wedding.
A yurt. Woven rugs. Hot plov. Laughter. Dancing.
His uncle’s wife smiled for the first time in weeks.
An old neighbor said:
“Jeanne’s one of us now. A true kelin.”
Jeanne nearly cried.
But not from sadness.
From being truly accepted.
A week later – their honeymoon.
Not the Maldives.
But an old house by Issyk-Kul.
An aging garden. Coffee with jam.
Kuwait read her poetry in Russian.
She answered with English lines.
They kissed in the rain.
Warmed themselves by the fire.
Their love wasn’t flashy – but it had rhythm. Deep and steady.
Ten days later – back to Chicago.
New documents.
Kuwait received U.S. citizenship.
“You’re officially American now,” Jeanne teased.
“I’ve always been human,” he smiled.
They bought a home with a mortgage.
Small, with a balcony.
It smelled of fresh paint and hope.
Both joined the District Attorney’s office.
Jeanne – already working civil cases.
Kuwait – just an intern, but right in the heart of things.