When Laila was alone with him, Zalmai was sweet, good humored, and playful.
He liked to climb Laila's shoulders, play hide and seek in the yard with her and Aziza.
Sometimes, in his calmer moments, he liked to sit on Laila's lap and have her sing to him.
His favorite song was “Mullah Mohammad Jan.” He swung his meaty little feet as she sang into his curly hair
and joined in when she got to the chorus, singing what words he could make with his raspy voice:
“Come and let's go to Mazar, Mullah Mohammadjan, To see the fields of tulips, o beloved companion.”
Laila loved the moist kisses Zalmai planted on her cheeks, loved his dimpled elbows and stout little toes.
She loved tickling him, building tunnels with cushions and pillows for him to crawl through,
watching him fall asleep in her arms with one of his hands always clutching her ear.
Her stomach turned when she thought of that afternoon, lying on the floor with the spoke of a bicycle wheel between her legs.
How close she'd come. It was unthinkable to her now that she could have even entertained the idea.
Her son was a blessing, and Laila was relieved to discover that her fears had proved baseless,
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