Downstairs, her parents were fighting. Again. Laila knew the routine:
Mammy, ferocious, indomitable, pacing and ranting; Babi, sitting, looking sheepish and dazed, nodding obediently, waiting for the storm to pass.
Laila closed her door and changed. But she could still hear them. She could still hear her. Finally, a door slammed.
Pounding footsteps. Mammy's bed creaked loudly. Babi, it seemed, would survive to see another day.
“Laila!” he called now. “I'm going to be late for work!” “One minute!”
Laila put on her shoes and quickly brushed her shoulder-length, blond curls in the mirror.
Mammy always told Laila that she had inherited her hair color as well as her thick-lashed, turquoise green eyes,
her dimpled cheeks, her high cheekbones, and the pout of her lower lip,
which Mammy shared from her great-grandmother, Mammy's grandmother.
She was a pari, a stunner, Mammy said. Her beauty was the talk of the valley.
It skipped two generations of women in our family, but it sure didn't bypass you, Laila.
The valley Mammy referred to was the Panjshir, the Farsi-speaking Tajik region one hundred kilometers northeast of Kabul.
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