His white hair was straggly, pointing every which way. “This crying. I can't stand it.”
Downstairs, the girl was walking the baby across the floor, trying to sing to her.
I haven't had a decent night's sleep in two months,” Rasheed said. “And the room smells like a sewer. There's shit cloths lying all over the place.
I stepped on one just the other night.Mariam smirked inwardly with perverse pleasure. “Take her outside!”
Rasheed yelled over his shoulder. “Can't you take her outside?” The singing was suspended briefly.
She'll catch pneumonia!” “It's summertime!” “What?” Rasheed clenched his teeth and raised his voice.I said, It's warm out!
I'm not taking her outside!The singing resumed.
Sometimes, I swear, sometimes I want to put that thing in a box and let her float down Kabul River. Like baby Moses.”
Mariam never heard him call his daughter by the name the girl had given her, Aziza, the Cherished One.
It was always the baby, or, when he was really exasperated, that thing.
Some nights, Mariam overheard them arguing.
She tiptoed to their door, listened to him complain about the baby, always the baby,
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