A Thousand Splendid Suns

It was when Mullah Faizullah's slight, stooping figure appeared in the
kolba's doorway that Mariam cried for the first time that day.
"Oh, Mariam jo."
He sat next to her and cupped her face in his hands. "You go on and
cry, Mariam jo. Go on. There is no shame in it. But remember, my girl,
what the Koran says, 'Blessed is He in Whose hand is the kingdom, and
He Who has power over all things, Who created death and life that He
may try you.' The Koran speaks the truth, my girl.
Behind every trial and every sorrow that He makes us shoulder, God
has a reason."
But Mariam could not hear comfort in God's words. Not that day. Not
then. All she could hear was Nana saying, I'll die if you go. I'll just die. All
she could do was cry and cry and let her tears fall on the spotted,
paper-thin skin of Mullah Faizullah's hands.
* * *
On the ride to his house, Jalil sat in the backseat of his car with Mariam,
his arm draped over her shoulder.
"You can stay with me, Mariam jo," he said. "I've asked them already to
clean a room for you. It's upstairs. You'll like it, I think. You'll have a
view of the garden."
For the first time, Mariam could hear him with Nana's ears. She could
hear so clearly now the insincerity that had always lurked beneath, the
hollow, false assurances. She could not bring herself to look at him.