He pulled his chair closer, took Mariam's hand in both of his own.
“You see, I knew your mother before you were born, when she was a little girl, and I tell you that she was unhappy then.”
“The seed for what she did was planted long ago, I'm afraid. What I mean to say is that this was not your fault.”
“It wasn't your fault, my girl.” “I shouldn't have left her. I should have—”
“You stop that. These thoughts are no good, Mariam jo. You hear me, child? No good. They will destroy you.”
“It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault. No.” Mariam nodded, but as desperately as she wanted to she could not bring herself to believe him.
One afternoon, a week later, there was a knock on the door, and a tall woman walked in.
She was fair skinned, had reddish hair and long fingers. “I'm Afsoon,” she said.
“Niloufar's mother. Why don't you wash up, Mariam, and come downstairs?”
Mariam said she would rather stay in her room. “No, na fahmidi, you don't understand.”
“You need to come down. We have to talk to you. It's important.”
7.
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