Her phone, dormant in the cottage because of the poor signal, suddenly came to life. Every day, from the grounds, she phoned Adam’s care home to check up on him, but she had not switched on her data. Now the wireless signal picked up messages from her mother and from Murtada. Missed calls too. The same reproach, the same disregard for her here and now. A new angle of attack from Murtada. You are oblivious to my own needs and deprivations. If you’re able to leave your son with strangers, then why didn’t you come to me instead of going off on holiday with your friends? I’ve been patient but you have no compassion. A direct command from her father demanding an immediate and urgent call. She called home without hesitation, alarmed because the message had been sent a day ago. Her parents’ faces glowed from the screen. Her mother in national dress, her father with a grizzly chin as if he had skipped shaving. The ceiling fan swirled above them and here she was, sitting in her coat. Murtada had reported her intransigence. She would not forgive him for this. Her mother led the recriminations – a wife’s duty is to be with her husband. You cannot continue to live in Britain on your own. It’s high time you gave him another child. They did not add that the next child must be free of fault, but it was implied. How odd that although her family and Murtada’s all said that Adam’s disability was Allah’s will which must be accepted graciously, they all tended to imply that it was somehow her fault. She had fallen short. She needed to step up and make amends. She argued, as she had argued with Murtada. Adam, Adam, Adam, she kept saying because it was as if the whole world wished him out of the way, out of sight and out of hearing, a minor factor to be taken, only reluctantly, into the equation. Why couldn’t they understand how fulfilled she was when the doctor examined Adam and said to her, ‘Well done’? When the nurses treated her with tender respect. She would not find this care in any other country. Her father closed his eyes. He had heard all this before. Her mother cut her off. ‘Listen here, you’ve been indulged enough,’ she said. ‘Murtada is not going to wait for you for ever. A man has his limits and he’s been patient enough. How would you feel if he now goes ahead and takes another wife?’