Chapter 27

That night Fatimah—- took a cup of tea into her bedroom, quietly closed the door, and started to cry again. Goddamn it Moo,” she muttered. “You could have trusted me.

She needed to be alone. All evening long, she had been moody and distracted. And it wasn’t like her. On Mondays, a night of symphony, kabil always cooked. It was one of their rituals, as a family night, Dad in the kitchen, boys cleaning. Tonight he had cooked their favorite meal, chicken capers and vinegar. But nothing had gone right, and it was her fault.

One thought was pounding in her. She was a doctor, a doctor who felt only in fealty. Never once had she saved a life. She was a doctor who did not heal.

She went intro her closet, put on flannel pajamas went into the bathroom, and carefully cleaned her smooth brown face. She looked at herself.