Her own mind was a jittery, muddled mess. Mariam got up. “You should tend to your son now.”
On her was the most stricken expression Laila had ever seen on a human face.
Laila found him in the dark, curled up on Rasheed's side of the mattress.
She slipped beneath the covers beside him and pulled the blanket over them.
“Are you asleep?” Without turning around to face her, he said, “Can't sleep yet. Baba jan hasn't said the Babaloo prayers with me.”
“Maybe I can say them with you tonight.” “You can't say them like he can.” She squeezed his little shoulder. Kissed the nape of his neck.
“I can try.” “Where is Baba jan?” “Baba jan has gone away,” Laila said, her throat closing up again.
And there it was, spoken for the first time, the great, damning lie. How many more times would this lie have to be told?
Laila wondered miserably. How many more times would Zalmai have to be deceived?
She pictured Zalmai, his jubilant, running welcomes when Rasheed came home
and Rasheed picking him up by the elbows and swinging him round and round until Zalmai's legs flew straight out,
the two of them giggling afterward when Zalmai stumbled around like a drunk.
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