The Wild Card

Dalia gives herself an encouraging smile as she fixes her hijab one last time before leaving. An opportunity she doesn't want to miss. Dreams she doesn't want to shatter. Hope she is holding on to. 

"Lia, habibti, where are you? Your tea is getting cold," Dalia's mother called gently, placing a mint-green cup on the table with care. The cup, gifted by her father on her 18th birthday, held a special place in Dalia's heart, and every sip from it carried the warmth of cherished memories. 

Dalia was a vision of elegance and grace, with light hazel eyes that shimmered like liquid gold under the sun. She carried herself with quiet confidence, a woman unshaken by the world around her. 

Her hijab was more than a fabric; it was her identity and her pride. Even as she walked through the stylish streets of Milan, the curious gazes of strangers couldn't deter her. Each step she took was a silent protest, a declaration of her faith and resilience. 

Dalia rushed downstairs, holding a transparent file in one hand and her bag in the other. Her shoelaces were flimsy on her sneakers. She stumbled downstairs and quickly picked up the cup. The tea sloshed around a bit due to the small height of the cup, but Dalia managed to avoid spilling it on her white shirt. She was dressed in a modest white shirt, a ruffled skirt divided into three layers, and a matching hijab. She was rambling about the "sandwich rule" she had seen on Instagram yesterday, about how she should dress for her very first interview. 

The whole night had been a mess, and there were dark circles under her eyes that shadowed her face. She had done a background check and even met with some of the former employees. Either it was this interview or him . She had done everything she could to land this interview. With her degree, she was unstoppable—or was she? 

"Lia, fix your laces before you fall face down. Your brother would love a spectacle," her mother remarked after assessing her daughter's appearance. 

"He just needs an excuse to mock me. Doesn't he have anything better to do? Tell him to get married or something. He's always picking on me!" Dalia said with a scowl, making a face. 

"You'll miss him," Lia's mother mumbled. 

"Who, me?" Dalia scoffed at her mother's words. "Either you or me, one of us is going to have to be ill to miss him. I'm never going to miss him. He's such a pain," Dalia finished with a dramatic flair. 

"He's going to Palestine, to recount their life," her mother said. 

Dalia let the information settle, her brows furrowing as her mouth parted, but no words came. She paused for a moment before she spoke again. 

"What?" Dalia's eyes widened. "You're joking, right? After what happened to Baba?" 

"Dalia, you know, habibti, I'm a journalist. It's my duty to show the world what's happening. If I just sit idly like others, how can I expect them to put their lives on the line for the millions who are doing it every day?" Hamza said in a somber tone as he sat down across from Dalia. 

"I understand, Hamza, but—" Dalia tried to reason. 

"No, Lia, I've made up my mind, and I'm not going to change it. I can only pray to God that He returns me safely to my family. I'm not making any promises, and you should know that I would be honored to die on that land," Hamza interrupted. 

"Yes…" Dalia sulked. 

"Now, come on, you're getting late for your interview. You should cheer up. Didn't you want me to leave you alone?" Hamza teased. "FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!" he added, mimicking Dalia. "Isn't that what you said, lil kitten?". Hamza said as he tried to ease the tension. He had just dropped a bomb on her and he didn't want to do it sooner. Even if he had a chance he wouldn't. He couldn't break his sister's heart. 

Feeling guilty, Dalia got up to leave for her interview. She was already 10 minutes late due to their conversation. Although she didn't want to leave her brother like this, she decided it was best for both of them to say farewell with smiles on their faces rather than tear streaks covering them. 

"Wait! Where are you running off to? I'm dropping you off, and yes, I have time before my flight," Hamza said, grabbing his car keys. 

"But the car?" Dalia asked. 

"Ali and his sister will be joining us. He's going with me, and his sister will drive the car back," Hamza clarified. 

At the Interview 

"Miss Dalia Lombardi, correct?" the interviewer asked. 

"Yes, sir," Dalia replied hastily, fidgeting with her hands. She glanced around the room—it was pristine and white, almost clinical. The starkness of it made her feel small, and the emptiness was unsettling, as though every sound echoed far too loudly. 

"We've reviewed your qualifications and certificates. You're a promising lead, and we'd be thrilled to have you here," the second interviewer began. Dalia's heart soared briefly—this was one of the most renowned companies in the region, and working here would be a dream come true. The walls of this very room had likely witnessed countless success stories. But the interviewer's expression faltered, and Dalia's stomach dropped. 

"But..." the second interviewer hesitated. 

"But?" Dalia leaned forward, anxiety knotting in her chest. 

"To be honest, you're overqualified for this job. Your standards and growth won't be met here. Your goals are too high, and your ideas too abstract," the first interviewer interjected. 

"A little too creative," the second one added, as if it were a flaw. 

Dalia's pulse quickened. She felt the pristine room closing in, the glaring white amplifying her unease. "I don't see how that's a problem, sir," she replied, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. 

"That's just it, Miss Lombardi, You are a wild card." the first interviewer continued. "We've reviewed your university projects and were amazed by the outcomes. They're splendid. But the way you handle things and your approach—well, it's not what we're looking for. You're in your own league, which is a great thing, just not suitable for us. And we have other-". The one to his side nudges him in the elbow. 

Dalia thought it was a bit weird btu she was too angry to focus on that. 

"So you're rejecting me because I'm creative? Because I think abstractly?" Dalia asked, her frustration bubbling to the surface. 

"That's not exactly what we—" the second interviewer tried to interject, but Dalia had heard enough. 

"Sorry, sir. I don't see any point in continuing this meeting," she said, standing abruptly. "Clearly, neither of us sees eye to eye. Do you know how hard someone has to work to get here? How much effort goes into reaching this point? No, you don't." 

She left the room without waiting for a reply, her footsteps echoing hollowly in the sterile white corridor. 

Outside the company's imposing glass facade, Dalia stood motionless. The once-exciting vision of her reflection in the gleaming windows now seemed mocking. Tears she'd fought so hard to suppress began to spill over. She sank onto the edge of a planter, her file slipping from her grasp. 

Why does it always have to be me? she thought bitterly. Why does life keep putting me in these impossible situations? 

Dalia clutched her handkerchief, its soft fabric grounding her. She wiped her tears and took a deep breath, willing herself to think clearly. The rejection still stung, but the words of her brother echoed in her mind. 

"You're in your own league, Lia. That's not a bad thing." 

She straightened her shoulders and picked up her file. As she adjusted her hijab, she caught her reflection again, this time seeing not a failure, but someone resilient—someone still standing. Someone else. 

She pulled out her phone and began searching for other opportunities. This was just one setback in a journey she refused to abandon. If this company thought I was too big for them, maybe they were right. Maybe I should stop thinking small, too. 

Dalia walked away from the building. She didn't want to do this but sometimes Life pushed you in the corner.