A Thousand Splendid Suns

"Laila," he answered
He pulled her a chair. The family room was brightly lit and had double
windows that opened into the yard. On the sill were empty jars in which
Tariq's mother pickled eggplant and made carrot marmalade.
"You mean our aroos, our daughter-in-law," his father announced,
entering the room. He was a carpenter, a lean, white-haired man in his
early sixties. He had gaps between his front teeth, and the squinty eyes
of someone who had spent most of his life outdoors. He opened his arms
and Laila went into them, greeted by his pleasant and familiar smell of
sawdust. They kissed on the cheek three times.
"You keep calling her that and she'll stop coming here," Tariq's mother
said, passing by them. She was carrying a tray with a large bowl, a
serving spoon, and four smaller bowls on it. She set the tray on the
table. "Don't mind the old man." She cupped Laila's face. "It's good to
see you, my dear. Come, sit down. I brought back some water-soaked
fruit with me."
The table was bulky and made of a light, unfinished wood-Tariq's father
had built it, as well as the chairs. It was covered with a moss green vinyl
tablecloth with little magenta crescents and stars on it. Most of the
living-room wall was taken up with pictures of Tariq at various ages. In
some of the very early ones, he had two legs.
"I heard your brother was sick," Laila said to Tariq's father, dipping a
spoon into her bowl of soaked raisins, pistachios, and apricots.
He was lighting a cigarette. "Yes, but he's fine now, shokr e Khoda,