“You mean our aroos, our daughter-in-law,” his father announced, entering the room.
He was a carpenter, a lean, white-haired man in his early sixties.
He had gaps between his front teeth, and the squinty eyes of someone who had spent most of his life outdoors.
He opened his arms and Laila went into them, greeted by his pleasant and familiar smell of sawdust.
They kissed on the cheek three times.You keep calling her that and she'll stop coming here,” Tariq's mother said, passing by them.
She was carrying a tray with a large bowl, a serving spoon, and four smaller bowls on it.
She set the tray on the table. “Don't mind the old man.” She cupped Laila's face.
“It's good to see you, my dear. Come, sit down. I brought back some water-soaked fruit with me.”
The table was bulky and made of a light, unfinished wood. Tariq's father had built it, as well as the chairs.
It was covered with a moss-green vinyl tablecloth with little magenta crescents and stars on it.
Most of the living room wall was taken up with pictures of Tariq at various ages. In some of the very early ones, he had two legs.
“I heard your brother was sick,” Laila said to Tariq's father, dipping a spoon into her bowl of soaked raisins, pistachios, and apricots.
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