"You don't need excuses. Not you."
"You're kind to say that, Mariam jo."
He passed her his Koran. As he'd taught her, she kissed it three times touching it to her
brow between each kiss and gave it back to him.
"How are you, my girl?"
"I keep," Mariam began. She had to stop, feeling like a rock had lodged itself in her throat.
"I keep thinking of what she said to me before I left. She "
"Nay, nay, nay."Mullah Faizullah put his hand on her knee. "Your mother, may Allah
forgive her, was a troubled and unhappy woman, Mariam jo. She did a terrible thing to
herself. To herself, to you, and also to Allah. He will forgive her, for He is all forgiving, but
Allah is saddened by what she did. He does not approve of the taking of life, be it another's
or one's own, for He says that life is sacred You see " He pulled his chair closer, took
Mariam's hand in both of his own. "You see, I knew your mother before you were born,
when she was a little girl, and I tell you that she was unhappy then. The seed for what she
did was planted long ago, I'm afraid. What I mean to say is that this was not your fault. It
wasn't your fault, my girl."
"I shouldn't have left her. I should have "
"You stop that. These thoughts are no good, Mariam jo. You hear me, child? No good.
They will destroy you. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't your fault. No."
Mariam nodded, but as desperately as she wanted to she could not bring herself to believe
him.
One afternoon, a week later, there was a knock on the door, and a tall woman walked in.
She was fair skinned, had reddish hair and long fingers.
"I'm Afsoon," she said. "Niloufar's mother. Why don't you wash up, Mariam, and come
downstairs?"
Mariam said she would rather stay in her room.
"No, na fahmidi, you don't understand. You need to come down. We have to talk to you.
It's important."