She reaches up and kisses him. “Thank you, bheta.”

At his desk, Mansoor can hear Ashif and Layla though he can’t make out their words. They’re at it again! He slaps his pen to the table. Whispering to each other like schoolgirls. Even when Ashif was a teenager, if Mansoor happened to walk in on them chatting, they would stop, change the topic. Was this any way to treat a father? Why is Layla gossiping with him, anyway? Telling him her secrets, maybe even complaining about him? A boy does not want to know about these things—things meant for a woman. A daughter, not a son. Is it any wonder his son has turned out so soft? A sissy boy who can’t even keep his job. That’s his mother’s fault! He should never have trusted her to take care of him on her own. But what choice did he have? He had to move to Rocky Mountain House. He only did what countless men before him did. His father, too. Not to mention war heroes. Men who leave their families temporarily because they have to. After all, taking care of business is taking care of family and that is every man’s greatest honour and responsibility.

Mansoor pushes his chair back from his desk. “What’s going on in there?” he calls out.

There’s a moment of silence then Layla answers. “Nothing, nothing. Just saying goodbye.”

“Let him go, will you, Layla? You’re going to make him late for work.”

“I’m going, Pappa,” Ashif interjects. He balls his hands into fists and jams them into his pockets. “Just saying goodbye.”

“Okay,” Mansoor replies, still irritated. Ten hours just to say goodbye? No matter how much he’s done for his son, he only has eyes for his mother. He is her chumcho! Ever ready to do anything she wants. Meanwhile, he constantly pushes back against his father, as he did at lunch. What has he done to deserve his son’s contempt? It’s a question that plagues him daily, like a mosquito buzzing at his ear that he can’t swat away. He can’t think of a thing. On the contrary, he has fulfilled his every duty to his son, no matter what the circumstance, and this—this—is how he chooses to treat him? His face flushes hot with anger. He grabs the loan forms and tears them to pieces. He’ll find another way to secure the money.

“Don’t forget this, bheta,” Layla says, handing Ashif the plastic bag filled with containers of food, plastic cutlery, and serviettes. “In case you get hungry at the hotel.”

He’s about to explain that he can order room service, but a wave of exhaustion spreads through him. It won’t make a difference. He takes the bag from her and thanks her.

His father arrives just as he is about to leave. “Better go, son. Otherwise you will give your superiors a bad impression.”

“Come back soon,” Layla says and starts crying. “Or tomorrow for Lailatul Qadr.”

“Or better yet, why don’t you come back for the weekend after your meetings in Vancouver?” Mansoor asks.