While it was true that some of what he had learnt about his mother’s family was difficult to accept, he respected his father’s decision to tell him. Better to know your grandfather is a criminal than hear it in whispers on the day of his funeral from news crews and reporters.

Ahad’s paternal family were nothing like the people he had seen at the funeral today. The pomp and circumstance of the mourning, the array of expensive cars, the over-groomed women: it was all very different to the world of his buttoned-down grandparents.

He was thinking about all this and more when he felt Jia’s eyes on him. ‘My grandfather says your people are cruel. He said that when they fled Afghanistan, they slaughtered their wives and children.’

Jia had readied herself for difficult questions from her son, but this was not one of them. She considered her words carefully. ‘I am a proud Pukhtun, and you and I have the same blood – are you cruel?’

‘Is it true?’ he asked.

‘Bravery requires difficult decisions. To do good for the many, one must sometimes do questionable things to the few. If your grandfather knew the Pukhtun ways he would understand why the women and their children were killed. Every action has a reason, a measured reason. If you wait long enough, time reveals it. The men believed that their womenfolk would slow them down, allowing the enemy to catch up, and death at their hands was a kinder end than what that enemy would have done to them. Life demands harsh payments and difficult decisions. Those who don’t understand that, don’t understand life,’ she said. The conversation was intense but Jia considered it best to be honest with her son.

She was acutely aware that, despite giving birth to him, she had not had the opportunity to be his mother. She knew that the foundation parenthood is built on, the endless drudgery that proves and causes love to swell and grow, was missing between them. Their absence of history left her feeling stilted.

Ahad reflected on her words. Had his mother just lectured him? He had waited years to meet her. The way his father had described her, she was warm and gentle; but Jia did not seem to have been awaiting him with open arms. He looked across at his father, hoping to find some anchor, and Elyas responded, nodding, nudging him on to say what he had come to say.

But Ahad was frustrated by the situation, by it not being the way he wanted it to be. Years of anger, confusion and unanswered questions bubbled under his skin and stopped him from speaking.

It was Jia who finally broke the silence. ‘I hear you’ve been in trouble with the police,’ she said. ‘What did you do?’

‘Why does everyone think it’s my fault?’ he said, his anger finding an outlet. ‘The bastards were picking on me for no reason!’