You have read it and you have come to see Mullah Faizullah, as I had asked that you do.
I am grateful that you did, Mariam jo. I am grateful for this chance to say a few words to you. Where do I begin?
Your father has known so much sorrow since we last spoke, Mariam jo. Your stepmother Afsoon was killed on the first day of the 1979 uprising.
A stray bullet killed your sister Niloufar that same day. I can still see her, my little Niloufar, doing headstands to impress guests.
Your brother Farhad joined the jihad in 1980. The Soviets killed him in 1982, just outside of Helmand. I never got to see his body.
I don't know if you have children of your own, Mariam jo, but if you do I pray that God look after them and spare you the grief that I have known.
I still dream of them. I still dream of my dead children. I have dreams of you too, Mariam jo. I miss you.
I miss the sound of your voice, your laughter. I miss reading to you, and all those times we fished together.
Do you remember all those times we fished together?
You were a good daughter, Mariam jo, and I cannot ever think of you without feeling shame and regret.
Regret... When it comes to you, Mariam jo, I have oceans of it. I regret that I did not see you the day you came to Herat.
I regret that I did not open the door and take you in.
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