From the memoir: A woman recalls how her husband’s illness – and misogyny – broke their marriage

I was a married woman now. Things sank in. I was married with children and Lahore was my home. I had inherited everything that was my husband’s – his seven dogs, his weird pheasants and his senseless chickens, all crammed into the backyard. I had inherited his mother along with her possessions – the tea sieve and the dresser. His father, too, had been bequeathed to me and became my own. This part was rather nice. Nonetheless, there were issues there as well.

I called Yasser’s dad Abu just as I did my own father. However, this Abu smoked and drove expensive cars and he didn’t handle evenings well. I had also come into possession of Yasser’s books, but I wasn’t allowed to touch them. I ended up also falling heir to the way Yasser fitted into his family – except Yasser was the only child. This was a mother like no mother I knew. This was a father like no father I knew. Yasser had no siblings. There was this concentrated syrup of attention, intense, sharp and pungent, that was only offered to Yasser. Yasser’s room. Yasser’s TV. Yasser’s books. Yasser’s published articles in newspaper cuttings. The fact was everything...

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