I wondered if that was how forgiveness budded, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and slipping away unannounced in the middle of the night.
A man’s heart is a wretched, wretched thing, Mariam. It isn’t like a mother’s womb. It won’t bleed, it won’t stretch to make room for you.
Learn this now and learn it well, my daughter: Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman. Always. You remember that, Mariam.
Perhaps this is just punishment for those who have been heartless, to understand only when nothing can be undone.
It may be unfair, but what happens in a few days, sometimes even a single day, can change the course of a whole lifetime.
A woman who will be like a rock in a riverbed, enduring without complaint, her grace not sullied but shaped by the turbulence that washes over her.
Not a word passes between us, not because we have nothing to say, but because we don’t have to say anything.