“I was sent to Kabul as a reward for dealing with roadside militants and rampant crime in my two previous posts. Here, we were having soirees with Foreign Service officers from all over the world late into the night. For most of my time here, the biggest news was finding out an ambassador’s wife had caught him in bed with a leggy economic officer from another embassy. We were having the time of our lives hanging out with each other in this beautiful country.”

“What about the Russians?” Clay asks. “Were they part of the fun?”

“Sure,” Mom recalls, adding a spoon of cilantro chutney to her plate. “It was before the war.”

“But it was during the Cold War,” Clay notes. “So part of the mission must have been about checking their presence.”

“As officers of the U.S. Foreign Service, our mission was to build diplomatic relations between the United States and Afghanistan,” Mom says in the carefully arranged language of a Foreign Service officer.

“Diplomatic relations with Afghanistan were one tactic in the Cold War strategy,” Clay responds. “You’ve got the Russians and the Americans trying to be best buddies with the Afghan government. Two muscle-flexing superpowers playing tug-of-war, and they shredded this country to pieces.”

Mom sets down her fork.

“That might seem like a neat little explanation for how things went down, but you fail to grasp that we were building real relationships with real people. I knew President Daoud. I’d met his family. We weren’t here to battle Russians.”

“Not militarily, no.”

They seem to have forgotten that I am at the table as well. Mom’s hands are clasped together primly, her head cocked to the side. Part of me thinks I should intervene now, but I also know that one way or another they will have this conversation, either tonight or another day. Part of me knows this is the conversation I have avoided having with Mom for much of my life, purely out of love.

I’ve felt a headache coming on since we sat down. Taking my pills on an empty stomach will be torture, so I focus on eating and try to ignore their debate.

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to offend,” Clay insists. “I’m just looking at it objectively.”

“You’re very critical of our work. But the Russians were probably the ones who masterminded the coup. And they poured millions and millions into this country and made sure people were grateful for their Polytechnic University—”

“And we did the same with American University,” Clay adds.

“They built Salang Pass . . .” Mom continues.

“We started that dam . . .”

“And the Macroyan apartment complex . . .”

“While we sent in almost two thousand Peace Corps volunteers to teach English,” Clay says softly. He’s not cocky in his retorts, just insistent.

Mom leans back in her chair and folds her arms across her chest.