"Anj, spill."

My little sister Anjum cleared her throat and continued to fiddle with her spoon, making it clink and clank against the inside of her coffee cup as she continued to stir her cold coffee.

I turned my fiercest stare on her which made her start squirming in her seat when she glanced up at me.

Drawing out her name, I repeated, "Anjum Khan, spill it. What do you know?"

She tittered and flashed a nervous smile. "Nothing. Nothing. I don't know anything."

Like the bestest of friends they were, Dottie and Jaya joined my battle. "Come on, Anj, what is it?" "You can't lie, Anj, you know we know that you know something." "Just tell us." "Spill, Anj, you know we'll get it out of you."

Anj heaved a sigh and finally met my eye. She gave me an apologetic smile before opening the hangar doors to begin dropping bombs on my life with the phrase, "Mom doesn't know I know."

My stomach fell through the floor in fear. If my mother had anything to do with what my sister was about to tell me, then I was in serious trouble. I love my mom. She's an amazing, vibrant woman. But she could be crazy when it came to certain topics, like school grades (don't even consider getting less than an A), what you're wearing, what you're eating, what you spend time doing and who you're doing it with. So, yeah, pretty much everything. She means well, but it was beyond suffocating at times.

So, if what my little sister was about to reveal had to do with my mom meddling in my 30 year old adult life, then I could be in need of some serious therapy sooner than later.

Anjum slowly turned over her phone where it sat beside her coffee cup and covered it with her hand. "You have to promise not to tell Mom, though!"

I wanted to agree just to get her to tell me, but I've challenged myself to not lie. Sounds easy, right? In the beginning it was crazy hard because I didn't realise how many little white lies I told like "Sure, I'll come to your party" when I had no intention of going. I still slip up, but I've worked the better part of a year to stop.

My sister looked downright nervous, and seeing her feathers ruffled like that made me shiver in nervousness too. Whatever she had to tell me was big. "Depending on what you show me, I might scream so loudly Mom will figure it out all by herself. Besides, if Mom was doing this to you, you'd want me to tell you, right?"

Anj nodded and gave me one more pleading look, but I just raised my eyebrows expectantly. She uncovered her phone. "So, Sonia and I made a fake account. Just to look around, right?"

I crossed my arms over my chest, more out of nerves than anger. "Fake account where?"

A blush rose on my little sister's cheeks. "On a nikah site."

Oh. My. God.

A Muslim marriage site to meet people... or set up arranged marriages.  Every muscle in my body froze and cold sweat broke out on my forehead. Everything was about to get a whole lot more real.

When I got older, mom's nitpicking focus shifted from grades and clothes to weddings and grandkids. It's her favourite topic that she brings up no less than three times a day by doing things like handing me flyers advertising a sale on decorations - "Maybe they'll have wedding decorations?" she'll comment - or reminding me about so-and-so's wedding we went to, and wouldn't it be nice to have the same balloon arch/ice sculpture/etc they had. You get the picture.

Mom also regularly asked me if I'd thought about "Auntie so-and-so's nice nephew" or "Uncle so-and-so's lovely boy" as potential marriage partners. Never think that living in a small Canadian town would shield you from being set up. The Pakistani Network of Potential Partners was a global phenomenon worthy of academic study.

Some of my mom's obsession with getting me married comes from outside. Someone or other in Mom's Quran study group or one of her patients was constantly talking about the marriage, pregnancy or children of their daughter or daughter-in-law or niece or cousin's daughter or some relative near or far. I know because my mom came home and guilted me about it with the details. Every. Single. Time.

My mom would say, "And what can I talk about? Nothing. Why?" And she'd throw her hand up, lean into me and wag her finger like I was being naughty, "Because you aren't married." She always managed to ignore the fact that my older brother and younger sister weren't either.

Mom makes me feel like my sole purpose is to get married and produce grandkids for her to brag about. As if she wants me to throw my business degree, MBA and the five years I've been busting my hump at work out the window to wear traditional shalwar chamis all the time, get married and act like I'm a housewife from some remote village. For the record, I have nothing against people who do that or want that, but it's not me. I love my job. With capital L love - well, except for my boss.

I always gave Mom the same kind of delay-tactic response. The latest was "Mom, maybe once I get this promotion and get out from under my boss' thumb I'll be ready." Mom knows my boss has been causing me no end of headaches, so it usually gets her to back off at least until later that day.

Sigh. My mom.

I opened my eyes and looked at my little sister, who was staring sheepishly at the table. "How long have you known about this?"

Anj whispered, "Two months."

"Two months!" I exploded, earning reproachful looks from the tables around us.

I held out my hand for her phone. "Let me see it."

Anj looked wildly at Dottie and Jaya for back up, but they had assumed the same pose as me with arms crossed over their chests and lowered brows. Anj was only a year younger than me and a regular part of our crew. I could tell from my besties' faces they were feeling the sting of betrayal too.

Anj slipped the phone off the table and held it in her lap. "I don't think you want to."

Fear crept up my spine. "How bad is it?"

Anj kept her eyes down and fiddled with her phone.

"Anj, how bad is it?" I repeated, and my voice trembled just a bit.

Anj picked up her phone and found the site for me. "Here."

Dottie and Jaya pulled their chairs closer to me to see The Profile.

My mom had posted a picture of me from my cousin's wedding in Pakistan last year. The thing is, the picture was taken at a women-only party, so I'm all dressed up in an awesome shalwar chamis I borrowed from my cousin, with professionally done makeup that made me look like a model, and I'm not wearing my hijab so my professionally-styled hair with curls and strategically pinned flowers and rhinestones is on display for anyone to see.

The stunned silence was broken by Jaya saying, "Oh sweet Ganesha."

"Abi, you're a babe!" Dottie contributed.

I pressed my fingers to my temples. "I can't believe my mom would do this to me." Not only the arranged marriage when she knows I'm not ready, but her photo choice.

"Told you it was bad." Anj pursed her lips and opened her mouth to say something else, but just shook her head and closed it. She pushed her coffee cup away and crossed her arms tightly across her chest.

"Well, at least now we know what that guy was doing with his phone," Dottie said.

I looked at her quizzically.

Dot shrugged. "You look a lot different with your hijab on, Abi. He was probably comparing the picture to the real thing."

The real thing. My heart stung as I looked at the picture my mom had chosen to represent me.

"Look! There's a message!" Jaya said pointing excitedly.

All three turned to me expectantly.