Would they jail him? Jail his sons? Take his businesses and properties from him?
“Is this warm?” Rasheed said, eyeing the rice. “I just served it from the pot.” He grunted, and told her to hand him a plate.
Down the street, as the night lit up in sudden flashes of red and yellow, an exhausted Fariba had propped herself up on her elbows.
Her hair was matted with sweat, and droplets of moisture teetered on the edge of her upper lip.
At her bedside, the elderly midwife, Wajma, watched as Fariba's husband and sons passed around the infant.
They were marveling at the baby's light hair, at her pink cheeks and puckered, rosebud lips,
at the slits of jade green eyes moving behind her puffy lids.
They smiled at each other when they heard her voice for the first time,
a cry that started like the mewl of a cat and exploded into a healthy, full-throated yowl.
Noor said her eyes were like gemstones. Ahmad, who was the most religious member of the family,
sang the azan in his baby sister's ear and blew in her face three times.
“Laila it is, then?” Hakim asked, bouncing his daughter. “Laila it is,” Fariba said, smiling tiredly.
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