Now that they were here, and the building was a reality, she looked shaken.
Her lower lip was quivering and her eyes threatened to well up, and Laila saw how hard she was struggling to be brave.
“If we tell the truth,” Aziza said in a thin, breathless voice, “they won't take me. It's a special school. I want to go home.”
“I'll visit all the time,” Laila managed to say. “I promise.” “Me too,” said Mariam.
“We'll come to see you, Aziza jo, and we'll play together, just like always. It's only for a while, until your father finds work.”
“They have food here,” Laila said shakily. She was glad for the burqa, glad that Aziza couldn't see how she was falling apart inside it.
“Here, you won't go hungry. They have rice and bread and water, and maybe even fruit.”
“But you won't be here. And Khala Mariam won't be with me.” “I'll come and see you,” Laila said. “All the time.
Look at me, Aziza. I'll come and see you. I'm your mother. If it kills me, I'll come and see you.”
The orphanage director was a stooping, narrow chested man with a pleasantly lined face. He was balding, had a shaggy beard, eyes like peas.
His name was Zaman. He wore a skullcap. The left lens of his eyeglasses was chipped.
As he led them to his office, he asked Laila and Mariam their names, asked for Aziza's name too, her age.
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