A Thousand Splendid Suns

A man’s heart is a wretched, wretched thing, Mariam. It isn’t like a mother’s womb. It won’t bleed, it won’t stretch to make room for you

Learn this now and learn it well, my daughter: Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman

Laila lay there and listened, wishing Mammy would notice thatshe, Laila, hadn't becomeshaheed, that she was alive, here, in bed with her, that she had hopes and a future. But Laila knew that her future was no match for her brothers' past. They had overshadowed her in life. They would obliterate her in death. Mammy was now the curator of their lives' museum and she, Laila, a mere visitor. A receptacle for their myths. Theparchment on which Mammy meant to ink their legends.

Keep him away from me." That was the only time Mammy said anything all morning.

Babi ended up sitting alone on a folding chair in the hallway, looking desolate and small Then one of the women told him he was in the way there. He apologized and disappeared into his study.

Boys, Laila came to see, treated friendship the way they treated the sun: its existence undisputed; its radiance best enjoyed, not beheld directly.

Babi had wiped his eyeglasses clean with the hem of his shirt.To me, it's nonsense -and very dangerous nonsense at that-all this talk of I'm Tajik and you 're Pashiun and he's Hazara and she's Uzbek. We 're all Afghans, and that's all that should matter. But when one group rules over the others for so long…Theref s contempt. Rivalry. There is. There always has been.

behind closed doors

sent her off.

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. Mariam jo, 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 give you many healthy and beautiful children. May you find the happiness, peace, and acceptance that I did not give you. Be well. I leave you in the loving hands of God. Your undeserving father,
Jalil

In it was a letter, handwritten in blue ink on a yellow, lined sheet of paper.
It read: