With the cat’s meows, Madar’s fingers would tickle at Faheem’s sides and he would fall into a fit of laughter. Sometimes afflicted by delighted hiccups, he would stick his palm out and beg for another round.

“A sparrow?” Shair repeated.

“Yes, you must have heard of them. They are winged creatures who live in the trees,” I explained. Neelab lowered her face to hide her smirk.

My snarky reply barely seemed to draw a reaction, and I thought perhaps Shair was tolerating my mischief because of my mother.

My mother couldn’t stand keeping aloof from the people who guarded over us. She made small talk with all the soldiers. She knew the names of their wives and parents. She remembered where their families were from and always made a point to draw some line of connection—a common high school or a relative who had descended from the same province. She stopped when she spoke to the soldiers, instead of speaking only in passing. It took just a couple of seconds to look a person in the eye and give them the respect they were due, she insisted.

But they are just soldiers, I’d once said to my mother.

We are all soldiers of some kind was her obscure reply.

I had walked away instead of persisting. I didn’t wear a uniform or carry a rifle over my shoulder. I hadn’t sworn to protect the nation or the president. But I kept these arguments to myself because I was certain my mother would otherwise launch into the many ways in which I could improve my character. And sometimes I wanted to revel in my imperfections.

One day I watched my mother fold a pile of clothes I’d outgrown. She’d used a length of satin ribbon to tie them into a neat bundle, which she then delivered to Shair when we arrived at the palace. As we walked to the parlor where Neelab’s mother awaited us, I asked Madar why a soldier would need girl’s clothes.

Shaking her head, she told me that Shair had three children, including a daughter two years younger than me.

Clothes look better on children than in drawers, she’d said.

Impossible as it seemed, I tried to imagine Shair as a father. I wondered if he stood on guard in his home as he did here in the palace. I shared this thought with Neelab and then hunched over to salute tiny, imaginary children with a sour expression on my face. Neelab had laughed so hard that she snorted, which led to both of us doubling over.

“I thought you were leaving today. Has your mother not asked you to ready yourself?” Shair asked. I’d never heard him string so many words together. “Perhaps she is looking for you.”

“No,” I replied. “We’re staying with my father. He and the president have had much to discuss.”