A Thousand Splendid Suns

deserved you. Now all I can do is ask for your forgiveness. So forgive
me, Mariamjo. 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, Ihave
managed to sell what Utile 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. I hope
you will credit me with knowing that your forgiveness is not for sale. It
never was. I am merely giving you, if belatedly, what was rightfully yours
all along. I was not a dutiful father to you in life. Perhaps in death I can
be.
Ah, death. I won't burden you with details, but death is within sight for
me now. Weak heart, the doctors say. It is a fitting manner of death, I
think, for a weak man.
Mariamjo,
I dare, I dare allow myself the hope that, after you read this, you will
be more charitable to me than I ever was to you. That you might find it in
your heart to come and see your father. That you will knock on my door
one more time and give me the chance to open it this time, to welcome
you, to take you in my arms, my daughter, as I should have all those
years ago. It is a hope as weak as my heart. This I know. But I will be
waiting. I will be listening for your knock I will be hoping.
May God grant you a long and prosperous life, my daughter. May God