she was apt to find clothes, shoes, open rice bags, cans of beans, and dirty dishes strewn about everywhere.
Laila washed Mammy's dresses and changed her sheets. She coaxed her out of bed for baths and meals.
She was the one who ironed Babi's shirts and folded his pants. Increasingly, she was the cook.
Sometimes, after she was done with her chores, Laila crawled into bed next to Mammy.
She wrapped her arms around her, laced her fingers with her mother's, buried her face in her hair.
Mammy would stir, murmur something. Inevitably, she would start in on a story about the boys.
One day, as they were lying this way, Mammy said, “Ahmad was going to be a leader.”
“He had the charisma for it. People three times his age listened to him with respect, Laila. It was something to see.”
“And Noor. Oh, my Noor. He was always making sketches of building sand bridges. He was going to be an architect, you know.”
“He was going to transform Kabul with his designs. And now they're both shaheed, my boys, both martyrs.”
Laila lay there and listened, wishing Mammy would notice that she, Laila, hadn't become shaheed,
that she was alive, here, in bed with her, that she had hopes and a future.
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