When I was a child, girls didn’t have to cover their hair. My mother wore a headscarf only in a masjid or when visiting a family to offer her condolences and prayers. I cringe to see women sheathed head to toe in burqas, obscured from the world. I know that, for many, this cover is the least of their concerns, but it is one marker of how much has changed. I wonder what my mother would say if she were to see me wearing a headscarf now.

Waleed takes us to the maternity hospital. His sister meets us at the entrance, buttoning her white coat as she approaches us. A black stethoscope hangs around her neck.

Her name is Dr. Nazari. She wears not a drop of makeup, and the small gold hoops dangling from her ears are her only jewelry. Her hair is tied back at the nape of her neck. She looks to be about my age. She shakes my hand, her grip firm, her English accented.

Waleed and Clay stay back, out of respect for the laboring mothers who fill the halls and walk the grounds while they await their turn for a doctor’s attention.

Mom asks how many patients they care for daily, and Dr. Nazari shakes her head.

“Too many. The answer to all your questions is ‘too many.’ How many mothers die of hemorrhage to bring a fourth or fifth child into this world? How many newborns take their last breath before they see a new moon?”

She leads us down a narrow hallway.

Round-bellied women lie on beds with metal frames, curtains pulled for privacy. Nurses wearing surgical face masks slip into rooms with IV poles and pans, with sheets and towels. Not since I was a medical student have I been in a hospital as an observer.

“What is your specialty, Doctor-sahib?” she asks me in Dari as she escorts us into the building.

When I tell her, she raises an eyebrow, impressed. I want to tell her she needn’t be. Following her into this hospital, I feel humbled.

Before I can figure out how to tell her as much, a nurse runs up to Dr. Nazari. A baby has turned into the wrong position. She is needed urgently.

“I hope you will return, Doctor-sahib,” she says as she squeezes my hands.

When Waleed returns us to the hotel, we are exhausted. The sole of my foot aches, like a fault line of pain. Clay wants to transcribe his notes while everything is fresh in his mind, and Mom wants to put her feet up.