They took turns poking each other on the chest, giggling, pelting each other with bread crumbs, whispering things the others couldn't hear.
If Laila spoke to them, Rasheed looked up with displeasure at the unwelcome intrusion.
If she asked to hold Zalmai or, worse, if Zalmai reached for her, Rasheed glowered at her.
Laila walked away feeling stung. Then one night, a few weeks after Zalmai turned two, Rasheed came home with a television and a VCR.
The day had been warm, almost balmy, but the evening was cooler and already thickening into a starless, chilly night.
He set it down on the living room table. He said he'd bought it on the black market.
“Another loan?” Laila asked. “It's a Magnavox.” Aziza came into the room. When she saw the TV, she ran to it.
“Careful, Aziza jo,” said Mariam. “Don't touch.” Aziza's hair had become as light as Laila's. Laila could see her own dimples on her cheeks.
Aziza had turned into a calm, pensive little girl, with a demeanor that to Laila seemed beyond her six years.
Laila marveled at her daughter's manner of speech, her cadence and rhythm,
her thoughtful pauses and intonations, so adult, so at odds with the immature body that housed the voice.
It was Aziza who with lightheaded authority had taken it upon herself to wake Zalmai every day, to dress him, feed him his breakfast, comb his hair.
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