I regret that I did not make you a daughter to me, that I let you live in that place for all those years.
And for what? Fear of losing face? Of staining my so-called good name?
How little those things matter to me now after all the loss, all the terrible things I have seen in this cursed war.
But now, of course, it is too late. Perhaps this is just punishment for those who have been heartless, to understand only when nothing can be undone.
Now all I can do is say that you were a good daughter, Mariam jo, and that I never deserved you. Now all I can do is ask for your forgiveness.
So forgive me, Mariam jo. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. I am not the wealthy man you once knew.
The communists confiscated so much of my land, and all of my stores as well.
But it is petty to complain, for God for reasons that I do not understand has still blessed me with far more than most people.
Since my return from Kabul, I have managed to sell what little remained of my land. I have enclosed for you your share of the inheritance.
You can see that it is far from a fortune, but it is something. It is something.
(You will also notice that I have taken the liberty of exchanging the money into dollars. I think it is for the best.)
God alone knows the fate of our own beleaguered currency. I hope you do not think that I am trying to buy your forgiveness.
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