“You should not speak like this to her, my child,” Mullah Faizullah said. “Look at me.” Mariam did.
“Only one skill. And it's this: tahamul. Endure.”
“Endure what, Nana?” “Oh, don't you fret about that,” Nana said. “There won't be any shortage of things.”
She went on to say how Jalil's wives had called her an ugly, lowly stone carver's daughter.
How they'd made her wash laundry outside in the cold until her face went numb and her fingertips burned.
“It's our lot in life, Mariam. Women like us. We endure. It's all we have. Do you understand?”
“Besides, they'll laugh at you in school. They will. They'll call you harami. They'll say the most terrible things about you. I won't have it.”
Mariam nodded. “And no more talk about school. You're all I have. I won't lose you to them.”
“Look at me. No more talk about school.” “Be reasonable. Come now. If the girl wants—” Mullah Faizullah began.
“And you, akhund sahib, with all due respect, you should know better than to encourage these foolish ideas of hers.
If you really care about her, then you make her see that she belongs here at home with her mother.
“There is nothing out there for her. Nothing but rejection and heartache. I know, akhund sahib. I know.”
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