She did away with her good plates, her napkins, all her jewelry save for her wedding band and most of her old clothes.
“You're not selling this, are you?” Laila said, lifting Mammy's wedding dress.
It cascaded open onto her lap. She touched the lace and ribbon along the neckline, the hand sewn seed pearls on the sleeves.
Mammy shrugged and took it from her. She tossed it brusquely on a pile of clothes.
Like ripping off a Band-Aid in one stroke, Laila thought.
It was Babi who had the most painful task. Laila found him standing in his study, a rueful expression on his face as he surveyed his shelves.
He was wearing a secondhand T-shirt with a picture of San Francisco's red bridge on it.
Thick fog rose from the white capped waters and engulfed the bridge's towers.
“You know the old bit,” he said. “You're on a deserted island. You can have five books.”
“Which do you choose? I never thought I'd actually have to.”
“We'll have to start you a new collection, Babi.” “Mm.” He smiled sadly.
“I can't believe I'm leaving Kabul. I went to school here, got my first job here, became a father in this town.”
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