It started in the kitchen. To be precise, it started on the brocade loveseat I had placed in the heart of our home. David thought I was bonkers, putting sitting room furniture in the kitchen, but it wasn’t long till its cozy magnetism lured him onto its cushions. You could stretch out in comfort right there in command central, close to sustenance. It was arguably the most popular spot in the house. Now I was curled up on it, sipping my tea while David chopped vegetables for his weekly batch of soup. The cadence of his knife stilled my mind much like a metronome, and into that space slipped an idea. “Hey,” I exclaimed. He turned to face me and I chuckled and said “I should write a book called I was Married to a Muslim, a Christian and a Jew.” My husband considered this for a moment and a half-smile registered on his face. I knew that look well. It was a look that supposed I had as much wherewithal to grow a prostate as to meet this unlikely goal. But he humored me and said “Why not?”
I haven’t grown a prostate but I have penned this account of my three marriages to men representing the world’s three major religions—Islam, Christianity and Judaism. It’s all true.
To protect the privacy of the people who shared their lives with me, names, occupations and places have been changed. While this creates a degree of inaccuracy, turning truth into fiction, the heart of the story remains uncompromisingly factual.