How hard it must be, how terribly hard, for a mother to be away from her sons.
“You're staying for lunch?” Tariq said. “You have to,” said his mother.
“I'm making shorwa.” “I don't want to be a mozahem.” “Imposing?” Tariq's mother said.
We leave for a couple of weeks and you turn polite on us?“All right, I'll stay,” Laila said, blushing and smiling. “It's settled, then.”
The truth was, Laila loved eating meals at Tariq's house as much as she disliked eating them at hers.
At Tariq's, there was no eating alone; they always ate as a family.
Laila liked the violet plastic drinking glasses they used and the quarter lemon that always floated in the water pitcher.
She liked how they started each meal with a bowl of fresh yogurt, how they squeezed sour oranges on everything, even their yogurt,
and how they made small, harmless jokes at each other's expense.
Over meals, conversation always flowed. Though Tariq and his parents were ethnic Pashtuns,
they spoke Farsi when Laila was around for her benefit, even though Laila more or less understood their native Pashto, having learned it in school.
Babi said that there were tensions between their people, the Tajiks, who were a minority,
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