A Thousand Splendid Suns

reading this letter, then you have read the letter that Ilefi at your door.
You have read it and you have come to see Mullah Faizullah, as I had
asked that you do. Iam grateful that you did, Mariam jo. Iam 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, Mariamjo.
Your stepmother Afsoon was killed on the first day of the 1979 uprising. A
stray bullet killed your sister Niloufar that same day. Ican still see her, my
Utile Niloufar, doing headsiands to impress guests. Your brother Farhad
joined the jihad in J 980. The Soviets killed him in J 982, just outside
ofHelmand. I never got to see his body. I don 'i know if you have children
of your own, Mariamjo, but if you do I pray that God look after them and
spare you the grief that Ihave known. I still dream of them. I still dream
of my dead children.
I have dreams of you too, Mariam jo. Imiss you. Imiss 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,
Mariamjo, 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. I
regret that I did not make you a daughter to me, ihatl leiyou live in that
place for all those years. Andfor what? Fear of losing face? Of staining my
so-called good name? How Utile those things matter to me now after all
the loss, all the terrible things Ihave seen in this cursed war. Bui 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
Ican do is say that you were a good daughter, Mariamjo, and that Inever