A thousand Splendid Suns

me. Iwas disappointed but could not blame you. In your place, Imight have done the sa-
me. Ilost the privilege of your good graces a long time ago and for that I only have 
myself to blame. Bui if you are reading this letter, then you have read the letter that Ilefi 
at your door. You have read it and you have come to see Mullah Faizullah, as I had as-
ked that you do. Iam grateful that you did, Mariam jo. Iam grateful for this chance to 
say a few words to you. 
  Where do I begin? 
 
  Your father has known so much sorrow since we last spoke, Mariamjo. Your stepmot-
her Afsoon was killed on the first day of the 1979 uprising. A stray bullet killed your sis-
ter Niloufar that same day. Ican still see her, my Utile Niloufar, doing headsiands to 
impress guests. Your brother Farhad joined the jihad in J 980. The Soviets killed him in 
J 982, just outside ofHelmand. I never got to see his body. I don 'i know if you have 

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children of your own, Mariamjo, but if you do I pray that God look after them and spare 
you the grief that Ihave known. I still dream of them. I still dream of my dead children. 
  I have dreams of you too, Mariam jo. Imiss you. Imiss the sound of your voice, your la-
ughter. I miss reading to you, and all those times we fished together. Do you remember 
all those times we fished together? You were a good daughter, Mariam jo, and I cannot 
ever think of you without feeling shame and regret. Regret… When it comes to you, Ma-
riamjo, I have oceans of it. I regret that I did not see you the day you came to Herat. I 
regret that I did not open the door and take you in. I regret that I did not make you a 
daughter to me, ihatl leiyou live in that place for all those years. Andfor what? Fear of 
losing face? Of staining my so-called good name? How Utile those things matter to me 
now after all the loss, all the terrible things Ihave seen in this cursed war. Bui now, of 
course, it is too late. Perhaps this is just punishment for those who have been heartless, 
to understand only when nothing can be undone. Now all Ican do is say that you were a 
good daughter, Mariamjo, and that Inever deserved you. Now all I can do is ask for yo-
ur forgiveness. So forgive me, Mariamjo. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me. 
 
  I am not the wealthy man you once knew. The communists confiscated so much of my 
land, and all of my stores as well. But it is petty to complain, for God-for reasons that I 
do not understand-has still blessed me with far more than most people. Since my return 
from Kabul, Ihave managed to sell what Utile remained of my land. I have enclosed for 
you your share of the inheritance. You can see that it is far from afortune, but it is so-
mething. It is something. (You will also notice that I have taken the liberty of exchan-
ging the money into dollars. I think it is for the best God alone knows the fate of our 
own beleaguered currency.) 
  I hope you do not think that I am trying to buy your forgiveness. I hope you will credit 
me with knowing that your forgiveness is not for sale. It never was. I am merely giving 
you, if belatedly, what was rightfully yours all along. I was not a dutiful father to you in 
life. Perhaps in death I can be. 
  Ah, death. I won't burden you with details, but death is within sight for me now. Weak 
heart, the doctors say. It is a fitting manner of death, I think, for a weak man. 
  Mariamjo, 
  I dare, I dare allow myself the hope that, after you read this, you will be more chari-
table to me than I ever was to you. That you might find it in your heart to come and see 
your father. That you will knock on my door one more time and give me the chance to 
open it this time, to welcome you, to take you in my arms, my daughter, as I should have 
all those years ago. It is a hope as weak as my heart. This I know. But I will be waiting. 
I will be listening for your knock I will be hoping. 
  May God grant you a long and prosperous life, my daughter. May God give you many 
healthy and beautiful children. May you find the happiness, peace, and acceptance that 
I did not give you. Be well. I leave you in the loving hands of God. 
 
  Your undeserving father, Jalil 
 
  That night, after they return to the hotel, after the children have played and gone to 
bed, Laila tells Tariq about the letter. She shows him the money in the burlap sack. 
When she begins to cry, he kisses her face and holds her in his arms.