but, the truth was, part of her had liked it, had liked how it felt to scream at Mariam, to curse at her,
to have a target at which to focus all her simmering anger, her grief. Laila wondered, with something like insight, if it wasn't the same for Mariam.
After, she had run upstairs and thrown herself on Rasheed's bed. Downstairs, Mariam was still yelling, “Dirt on your head! Dirt on your head!”
Laila had lain on the bed, groaning into the pillow, missing her parents suddenly and with an overpowering intensity
she hadn't felt since those terrible days just after the attack.
She lay there, clutching handfuls of the bed sheet, until, suddenly, her breath caught.
She sat up, hands shooting down to her belly. The baby had just kicked for the first time.
33. Mariam
Early one morning the next spring, of 1993, Mariam stood by the living room window and watched Rasheed escort the girl out of the house.
The girl was tottering forward, bent at the waist, one arm draped protectively across the taut drum of her belly,
the shape of which was visible through her burqa. Rasheed, anxious and overly attentive, was holding her elbow,
directing her across the yard like a traffic policeman. He made a Wait here gesture, rushed to the front gate,
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