A Thousand Splendid Suns

the wall They sit by the open window, on either side of an oblong patch
of sunlight- Laila hears women's voices whispering from another room. A
little barefoot boy places before them a platter of green tea and pistachio
gaaz nougats. Hamza nods at him.
"My son."
The boy leaves soundlessly.
"So tell me," Hamza says tiredly.
Laila does. She tells him everything. It takes longer than she'd
imagined. Toward the end, she struggles to maintain composure. It still
isn't easy, one year later, talking about Mariam.
When she's done, Hamza doesn't say anything for a long time. He
slowly turns his teacup on its saucer, one way, then the other.
"My father, may he rest in peace, was so very fond of her," he says at
last. "He was the one who sang azan in her ear when she was born, you
know. He visited her every week, never missed. Sometimes he took me
with him. He was her tutor, yes, but he was a friend too. He was a
charitable man, my father. It nearly broke him when Jalil Khan gave her
away."
"I'm sorry to hear about your father. May God forgive him."
Hamza nods his thanks. "He lived to be a very old man. He outlived
Jalil Khan, in fact. We buried him in the village cemetery, not far from
where Mariam's mother is buried. My father was a dear, dear man,