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Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman.
People, she believed now, shouldn’t be allowed to have new children if they’d already given away all their love to their old ones.
Mammy was now the curator of their lives’ museum and she, Laila, a mere visitor.
“One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.”
that love was a damaging mistake, and its accomplice, hope, a treacherous illusion.
“I don’t recognize Kabul.” “Neither do I,” Laila said. “And I never left.”
Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman. Always. You remember that, Mariam.
One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.
