For six months, I let my fiancé and his family mock me in Arabic, thinking I was just some naive American girl who didn’t understand anything. They had no idea I was fluent in Arabic!

“But since you’ve all been speaking Arabic for six months… maybe I should finally join in.”

The room froze.

Rami’s fork clattered to the table. His mother’s smile vanished.

I continued, my voice steady, delivering every word in flawless Arabic — repeating their jokes, their whispers, their insults. The only sound in the room was my voice.

“And you know,” I said softly, “it hurt at first. But now I’m grateful. Because I finally know who truly respects me — and who never did.”

For a long moment, no one moved. Then my father, completely unaware of what had been said, asked, “Is everything okay?”

I looked at Rami. “No, Dad. It’s not.”

That night, I called off the engagement.

Continued on next page: