Nana always gave a slow, burdened smile here, one of lingering recrimination or reluctant forgiveness, Mariam could never tell.
It did not occur to young Mariam to ponder the unfairness of apologizing for the manner of her own birth.
By the time it did occur to her, around the time she turned ten, Mariam no longer believed this story of her birth.
She believed Jalil’s version, that though he'd been away
he'd arranged for Nana to be taken to a hospital in Herat where she had been tended to by a doctor.
She had lain on a clean, proper bed in a well-lit room.
Jalil shook his head with sadness when Mariam told him about the knife.
Mariam also came to doubt that she had made her mother suffer for two full days.
“They told me it was all over within under an hour,” Jalil said. “You were a good daughter, Mariam jo. Even in birth you were a good daughter.”
“He wasn't even there!” Nana spat. “He was in Takht-e-Safar, horseback riding with his precious friends.”
When they informed him that he had a new daughter, Nana said,
Jalil had shrugged, kept brushing his horse's mane, and stayed in Takht-e-Safar another two weeks.
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