Mariam stroked the softness of her belly. No bigger than a fingernail, the doctor had said.
I'm going to be a mother, she thought. “I'm going to be a mother,” she said.
Then she was laughing to herself, and saying it over and over, relishing the words.
When Mariam thought of this baby, her heart swelled inside of her.
It swelled and swelled until all the loss, all the grief, all the loneliness and self-abasement of her life washed away.
This was why God had brought her here, all the way across the country. She knew this now.
She remembered a verse from the Koran that Mullah Faizullah had taught her: And Allah is the East and the West,
therefore wherever you turn there is Allah's purpose... She laid down her prayer rug and did namaz.
When she was done, she cupped her hands before her face and asked God not to let all this good fortune slip away from her.
It was Rasheed's idea to go to the hamam. Mariam had never been to a bathhouse,
but he said there was nothing finer than stepping out and taking that first breath of cold air, to feel the heat rising from the skin.
In the women's hamam, shapes moved about in the steam around Mariam, a glimpse of a hip here, the contour of a shoulder there.
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