“When can we take her home?” Layla asked.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Visram.” The nurse reached for the baby. “I have to take her now.”

“Please, I want to take her home.”

The nurse tried again. Layla slapped her hand away. “No! She’s mine.”

“Please don’t,” Mansoor said to the nurse.

The nurse stepped aside.

“Layla, please,” Mansoor said. “Give her to me.”

“She needs a name!” Layla wept. “She can’t be nameless. How else will Allah know who she is?” Her daughter had not been baptized. No one would baptize a dead child. She would not have an Ismaili burial. She was not Ismaili. This fact alone shattered Layla.

“What name do you like?” he asked.

“Maryam. I like Maryam.”

“Okay.” He took the baby from her. “Let me take care of our little Maryam.”

When Mansoor came back, he told Layla he had taken care of everything. Their Maryam was at peace. He made sure of it. He also closed the gas station and made arrangements for Ashif’s care. He stayed with Layla all day and insisted she eat when she refused. “You need your strength. Please—” he inched forward the bowl of soup on her food tray “—we all want you home.”

“When are you coming back?” she asked. “We all want you home, too.” It had been over four months since he had moved for the gas station.

“Soon. Very soon.”

For a moment, her mind flashed to the camp in London. The endless agony of waiting for him. She wanted her husband at home by her side, by Ashif’s side.

“I promise.” He then handed her a soup spoon and she took it. “Listen, Layla. There’s no disputing the science. The doctor showed me the graphs. It happens in eight-point-one percent of births.”

But she refused to accept it. She had done something to deserve this fate. She was sure of it. God isn’t unjust. He does not just dole out rewards and punishments randomly. Who would believe in a creator this cruel? There was a reason for everything. God is always watching and she must have made an error. She’d done something to anger him. But what? What had she done wrong?

Before Layla checked out of the hospital, the nurse gave her instructions on how to avoid mastitis. Don’t express or use warm compresses. Never stand in a hot shower, no matter how painful her breasts were. It would only make things worse. The best way to stop her milk was cold compresses. Ice packs were a good option. So were iced cabbage leaves.

“You just have to be patient with yourself, dear,” the nurse said as she helped Layla into her winter coat. “Our bodies just need a little time to understand.”

For weeks after, Layla spent her days in bed with the curtains drawn. Shamma and Almas arrived with care packages of food. They visited daily, just as they would have if she had come home with a baby. Almas combed her hair; Shamma gave her manicures and pedicures. They took away the box of baby clothes Layla had knit and the toys people had gifted her, replacing them with games and books for Ashif. They played with him, took him out for ice cream. Anything to keep him occupied for Layla’s sake, as well as his. He was eleven years old and they, like Layla, wanted to protect him from the news.