Hamid sighed.

“Laila.”

“What?”

“Enough.”

There was no cruelty in his voice.

That made her angrier.

Her father loved his daughters.

He had bought Laila’s textbooks.

He had once driven across Kabul to find a second-hand microscope because she wanted one for school.

He complained about the restrictions when they were alone.

But he had also learned to survive them.

He avoided arguments.

Avoided officials.

Avoided drawing attention.

For Hamid, keeping his daughters safe had slowly become the same thing as keeping them invisible.

“Papa,” Mina asked, “why can Farid go?”

Hamid looked at her.

“Because his school is open.”

“Why?”

He had no answer.

Mina waited.

Then she asked:

“Because he’s a boy?”

Hamid rubbed his forehead.

“Go help your mother.”

Mina stayed.

“Is it?”

“Go.”

She left.

Laila looked at her father.

“You couldn’t even say it.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“And what would the truth change?”

The question hung between them.

Laila hated it because she had no good response.

Several weeks later, Soraya’s mother became ill.

The old woman lived with relatives on the other side of Kabul.

She had diabetes and had developed a fever.

Soraya wanted to visit.

Hamid could not leave work.

Farid was at school.

“We’ll go when he comes home,” Hamid said on the phone.

Soraya looked at the clock.

“That is four hours.”

“Then four hours.”

“She’s sick now.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Soraya ended the call without saying goodbye.

Laila stood in the kitchen.

“I’ll go with you.”

Soraya looked at her.

“That doesn’t solve anything.”

“We can take a taxi.”

“No.”

“Mama.”

“No.”

“She might need you.”

“I know.”

“So let’s go.”

Soraya remained by the window.

A taxi passed outside.

Then another.

Life continued.

Men went to work.

Boys came out of shops.

A vegetable seller shouted prices from a cart.

Mishi walked along the top of the wall.

She stopped.

Stretched.

Jumped down into the lane.

Soraya watched her.

“So stupid.”

“What?”

“That cat.”

Laila looked outside.

Mishi crossed the road.

Soraya laughed once.

A strange, bitter laugh.

“She doesn’t even know she’s free.”

Neither woman spoke after that.

At 3:35, Farid returned from school.

He still had his backpack on when Soraya said:

“Come.”

“Where?”

“To your grandmother.”

“I have an exam tomorrow.”

“We won’t stay long.”

“Mama—”

“Please.”

Farid stopped.

Soraya almost never said please to her children in that tone.