From that night on, Mariam and Laila did their chores together.
They sat in the kitchen and rolled dough, chopped green onions, minced garlic,
offered bits of cucumber to Aziza, who banged spoons nearby and played with carrots.
In the yard, Aziza lay in a wicker bassinet, dressed in layers of clothing, a winter muffler wrapped snugly around her neck.
Mariam and Laila kept a watchful eye on her as they did the wash,
Mariam's knuckles bumping Laila's as they scrubbed shirts and trousers and diapers.
Mariam slowly grew accustomed to this tentative but pleasant companionship.
She was eager for the three cups of chai she and Laila would share in the yard, a nightly ritual now.
In the mornings, Mariam found herself looking forward to the sound of Laila's cracked slippers slapping the steps as she came down for breakfast
and to the tinkle of Aziza's shrill laugh, to the sight of her eight little teeth, the milky scent of her skin.
If Laila and Aziza slept in, Mariam became anxious waiting. She washed dishes that didn't need washing.
She rearranged cushions in the living room. She dusted clean windowsills.
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