and, when a woman nearby hissed, Mariam hissed back.
Mariam saw now the sacrifices a mother made. Decency was but one.
She thought ruefully of Nana, of the sacrifices that she too had made.
Nana, who could have given her away, or tossed her in a ditch somewhere and run. But she hadn't.
Instead, Nana had endured the shame of bearing a harami,
had shaped her life around the thankless task of raising Mariam and, in her own way, of loving her.
And, in the end, Mariam had chosen Jalil over her.
As she fought her way with impudent resolve to the front of the melee, Mariam wished she had been a better daughter to Nana.
She wished she'd understood then what she understood now about motherhood.
She found herself face to face with a nurse, who was covered head to toe in a dirty gray burqa.
The nurse was talking to a young woman, whose burqa headpiece had soaked through with a patch of matted blood.
“My daughter's water broke and the baby won't come,” Mariam called.
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