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God had always seemed like his own father—distant, unknowable, disapproving.
Sometimes she hated him for crying, and sometimes she hated him because she could not join him.
“On our wedding night,” she said, “I will cut out your tongue and swallow it. Then both tongues that spoke our marriage vows will belong to me, and I will be wed only to myself. You will most likely choke to death on your own blood, which will be unfortunate, but I will be both husband and wife and therefore not a widow to be pitied.”
“I am going to start sleeping with a knife.” “If you had had a knife, you would have killed me!” “Yes, exactly. And then I could have gone back to sleep.”
It was a lonely, cold thing to live without expectations.
He was meeting Nazira and Kumal in the same garden where he had first seen Mehmed.
🥲
“You once told me some lives are worth more than others. How many deaths before the scales tip out of our favor?” She had no answer.
