“Are you sick, Mummy?” Ashif asked when he came home from school and found her in bed with a bag of ice on each breast.

“My heart hurts, bheta,” she said, pushing herself to sitting.

“’Cause of the baby?” Ashif asked, twisting the edge of his T-shirt around a finger.

“Yes.”

His face fell. “I’m sorry.”

“Come, bheta,” she said, patting the edge of the bed.

He went to her.

“Don’t worry,” she said, cupping his face in her hands. “Mummy’s okay.”

He nodded, but she could sense he didn’t believe her. He knew, like she knew, that she would never be okay again.

“You want to stay in my room?” she asked. “Until Pappa comes back home.” If he was close to her, it would, she hoped, help alleviate his worry. Alleviate some of her sadness, too.

“But my toys are in my room.”

“We can move into your room then, okay?”

He nodded.

She pulled him to her and wrapped her arms around his small body. “You are such a good boy. What would Mummy do without you?”

It was Shamma and Almas who suggested she enter the Silver Jubilee chicken samosa competition. “Everyone is doing it, Layla Bai,” Shamma said. “Who doesn’t want a chance to cook for the Imam?”

“It will give you some peace of mind,” Almas added. Layla did not answer but she knew right away she would do it. This was her chance to reverse her fate, to clear her good name with the Almighty.

A new energy surged through her. Her days became singularly focused: making samosas. She refused visitors, reorganized her pantry, banned Ashif from the kitchen. She tested recipe after recipe. More garlic. Less clove. Chicken from Iqbal’s. Better. She tried different methods for rolling the dough: water on the rolling pin, ghee on the rolling pin, roll in not out. She experimented for weeks, remembering the small tweaks and changes by heart. The smell of fried samosas settled into the house like a permanent guest.

She cried for days when she received the news. First place! She even cried while she made the samosas, an endless stream of tears dripping into the dough. She tried to stop herself but she just couldn’t do it. It was only later that she realized that her tears were part of his great blessings: the Imam, as always, eats all our sorrows. This thought brought her so much relief she broke out into fits of laughter. She laughed so hard she cried. All praise is due to Allah! It was then that she made her vow. “I will never make my chicken samosas for anyone but the Imam.” A secret pact. She promised Khudavind to hold the recipe for him, and him alone. In return, she asked him to please protect her son. Make sure no harm comes to the only child she and Mansoor would ever have.

Dr. Poole stands in the doorway of the family room, scanning the crowd of faces. He has several large brown envelopes tucked under his arm. “Mrs. Visram,” he says, spotting Layla. “Can you come with me, please?”