“I wish there was something I could do,” Laila said, meaning it.
But it came out sounding broad, perfunctory, like the token consolation of a kind stranger.
“You're a good daughter,” Mammy said, after a deep sigh. “And I haven't been much of a mother to you.”
“Don't say that. Oh, it's true. I know it, and I'm sorry for it, my love.”
“Mammy?” “Mm.” Laila sat up, looking down at Mammy. There were gray strands in Mammy's hair now.
And it startled Laila how much weight Mammy, who'd always been plump, had lost.
Her cheeks had a sallow, drawn look. The blouse she was wearing drooped over her shoulders,
and there was a gaping space between her neck and the collar.
More than once Laila had seen the wedding band slide off Mammy's finger.
“I've been meaning to ask you something.” “What is it?” “You wouldn't...” Laila began.
She'd talked about it to Hasina. At Hasina's suggestion, the two of them had emptied the bottle of aspirin in the gutter,
hidden the kitchen knives and the sharp kebab skewers beneath the rug under the couch.
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