She uprooted them and ditched them before they took hold.
But somehow, over these last months, Laila and Aziza, a harami like herself, had become extensions of her,
and now, without them, the life Mariam had tolerated for so long suddenly seemed intolerable.
“We're leaving this spring, Aziza and I. Come with us, Mariam.”
The years had not been kind to Mariam. But perhaps, she thought, there were kinder years waiting still.
A new life, a life in which she would find the blessings that Nana had said a harami like her would never see.
Two new flowers had unexpectedly sprouted in her life, and, as Mariam watched the snow coming down,
she pictured Mullah Faizullah twirling his tasbeh beads, leaning in and whispering to her in his soft, tremulous voice,
“But it is God Who has planted them, Mariam jo. And it is His will that you tend to them. It is His will, my girl.”
36. Laila
As daylight steadily bleached darkness from the sky that spring morning of 1994, Laila became certain that Rasheed knew.
That, any moment now, he would drag her out of bed and ask whether she'd really taken him for such a khar, such a donkey, that he wouldn't find out.
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