A Thousand Splendid Suns

Mariam could not bring herself to allow it.
"I used to worship you," she said.
Jalil stopped in midsentence. He crossed and uncrossed his arms. A
young Hindi couple, the wife cradling a boy, the husband dragging a
suitcase, passed between them. Jalil seemed grateful for the interruption.
They excused themselves, and he smiled back politely.
"On Thursdays, I sat for hours waiting for you. I worried myself sick
that you wouldn't show up."
"It's a long trip. You should eat something." He said he could buy her
some bread and goat cheese.
"I thought about you all the time. I used to pray that you'd live to be a
hundred years old. I didn't know. I didn't know that you were ashamed of
me."
Jalil looked down, and, like an overgrown child, dug at something with
the toe of his shoe.
"You were ashamed of me."
"I'll visit you," he muttered "I'll come to Kabul and see you. We'll-"
"No. No," she said. "Don't come. I won't see you. Don't you come. I
don't want to hear from you. Ever. Ever."
He gave her a wounded look.
"It ends here for you and me. Say your good-byes."