But I knew, even then, that I was the apple of my father’s eye. A rare thing for a Pakistani girl. When a boy is born in Pakistan, it’s cause for celebration. Guns are fired in the air. Gifts are placed in the baby’s cot. And the boy’s name is inscribed on the family tree. But when a girl is born, no one visits the parents, and women have only sympathy for the mother. My father paid no mind to these customs. I’ve seen my name—in bright blue ink—right there among the male names of our family tree. Mine was the first female name in three hundred years.
