A pot of semolina, Carnation milk, and cardamom bubbles on the stove. A soft, sweet dessert. Ashif loved it as a child. So did she. So would have Maryam. Her sweet little Maryam. She scoops out a few spoonfuls of siro into a glass finger bowl and presses it into a mound. She decorates it with a heart of raisins then wraps it in plastic and sets it down next to the growing cluster of Mansoor’s dishes. She asks her husband to find their girl. You will recognize her, she tells him. She has a red birthmark shaped like a star on her shoulder. She’d seen it those few minutes she’d been allowed to hold her. Please give her a tasting. Tell her it’s from her mother. Tell her she is dearly missed. That she is in my heart and prayers daily. Ismaili or not. She is a child of God and that is enough. More than enough.

Chapter 25

WHEN ASHIF WAKES UP over ten hours later, he’s famished. It’s still dark outside. It takes him a few minutes to remember where he is. Calgary. His bedroom. Then he remembers. His father. The funeral.

He gets out of bed and steps on a pile of clothes, like shed skin, on the floor. He reaches for his pants, slips them on, but decides against the shirt and suit jacket. The letter from Shafina falls out from his pants pocket. He doesn’t want to lose her contact information. He gets his cellphone out and punches in her email address. Her phone number, too. He doesn’t know what he’ll say—or how to speak about it. But he knows this much. He wants to tell her how deeply sorry he is for hurting her. For running away that night. For never reaching out to her after. For pretending it never happened. Forgetting it did. He’s been lying to himself all these years. He wants to face the truth. For her. For himself.

He roots through the room’s closet where he finds a Duran Duran T-shirt. He tries it on. It looks silly—it’s so small. He laughs at himself, tosses it back. He grabs a larger white T-shirt instead.

He finds Layla at the stove in the kitchen. “Did you sleep okay, Mummy?”

“Oh, good, you are up, bheta,” she says, setting a wooden spoon down.

“You let me sleep for so long.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you. You were sleeping so nicely.” She turns down the stove’s element and wipes her hands down the front of her apron.

They embrace tightly.

She pushes him back to look at him. “You must be hungry, no?”

“So hungry.”

“Sit-sit. Let me give you food.”

“What about you? Have you eaten?” Ashif asks.

She shakes her head, pulling a Tupperware container out of the fridge.

He takes the container from her. “Let’s eat together. Before the sun rises, for your fast.”

“Yes, okay.” She hugs him again.

She reaches into the fridge for another container and another, passing each one to Ashif, as if on an assembly line. He sets each on the kitchen table and soon the surface is covered with containers. He clumsily snaps off the lids; some fly off the table.