The rhythms of their love-making were slower than they had been in their youth. But in his bedroom, behind closed doors, his arm around her waist, their legs intertwined, his kisses deep and heavy, she received him as hungrily as she had done the first time.

‘The thing about sex in your forties is that you take the time to fold your clothes neatly before you begin, because you know from experience that you’re going to need them when you’re done,’ he’d joked afterwards, as he handed her an oversized T-shirt. She’d laughed at his commentary.

Later, she sat on the edge of the bed, her back to him, thinking of what to say. ‘You wouldn’t want any more than this if you really knew me,’ she said. The darkness hid her face, but the curve of her shoulders, her back, her lips and the slant of her neck were all clearly outlined by the slivers of moonlight that slipped in through the curtains.

Elyas watched her from the bed, his back against the pillows, knowing that one wrong word could make her bolt. Her fears had pushed her to the edge of the bed; had he put too much pressure on her in his desire to have her back, not just for Ahad’s sake, but for himself? But he owed it to them both to be honest. So he took his time, thinking, weighing up phrases against each other before finally settling upon his response: ‘There is nothing you could tell me that would make me leave. I want this baby and I want you.’

His naive confidence saddened her, but she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that he would still love her if he knew about Ahad, about what she had attempted to do to him in the hospital on the night he was born. She wanted to believe that he would still feel the same if he knew what had happened the night her father was killed, and Benyamin was taken. But she knew that openness, trust and honesty were for other people. People with simpler lives, who carried smaller burdens. Her choices had taken her down a path that few would accept and fewer still understand. A path that had her believe spousal love was the domain of the weak and that familial love was the higher calling. It was the warrior path, the path of self-sacrifice, trodden by few – the qurban, the Pukhtun.

‘I can’t give you anything. And there are things about my life that would make it very difficult for you to stand by what you say. You don’t know what you’re asking for,’ she said.