4.
Mariam loved having visitors at the kolba.
The village arbab and his gifts, Bibi jo and her aching hip and endless gossiping, and, of course, Mullah Faizullah.
But there was no one, no one, that Mariam longed to see more than Jalil. The anxiety set in on Tuesday nights.
Mariam would sleep poorly, fretting that some business entanglement would prevent Jalil from coming on Thursday,
that she would have to wait a whole other week to see him.
On Wednesdays, she paced outside, around the kolba, tossed chicken feed absentmindedly into the coop.
She went for aimless walks, picking petals from flowers and batting at the mosquitoes nibbling on her arms.
Finally, on Thursdays, all she could do was sit against a wall, eyes glued to the stream, and wait.
If Jalil was running late, a terrible dread filled her bit by bit. Her knees would weaken, and she would have to go somewhere and lie down.
Then Nana would call, “And there he is, your father. In all his glory.”
Mariam would leap to her feet when she spotted him hopping stones across the stream, all smiles and hearty waves.
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