A voice inside her head tried to soothe her with well-intended but misguided consolation. You’ll have others, Inshallah.
You're young. Surely you‘ll have many other chances. But Mariam's grief wasn't aimless or unspecific.
Mariam grieved for this baby, this particular child, who had made her so happy for a while.
Some days, she believed that the baby had been an undeserved blessing, that she was being punished for what she had done to Nana.
Wasn't it true that she might as well have slipped that noose around her mother's neck herself?
Treacherous daughters did not deserve to be mothers, and this was just punishment.
She had fitful dreams, of Nana's jinn sneaking into her room at night, burrowing its claws into her womb, and stealing her baby.
In these dreams, Nana cackled with delight and vindication.
Other days, Mariam was besieged with anger. It was Rasheed's fault for his premature celebration.
For his foolhardy faith that she was carrying a boy. Naming the baby as he had. Taking God's will for granted.
His fault, for making her go to the bathhouse. Something there, the steam, the dirty water, the soap, something there had caused this to happen.
No. Not Rasheed. She was to blame. She became furious with herself for sleeping in the wrong position,
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