Excerpt from When the Moon Is Low by Nadia Hashimi, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

CHAPTER 1
Fereiba

MY FATE WAS SEALED IN BLOOD ON THE DAY OF MY BIRTH. AS I struggled to enter this twisted world, my mother resigned it, taking with her my chances of being a true daughter. The midwife sliced through the cord and released my mother from any further obligation to me. Her body paled while mine pinked; her breaths ceased as I learned to cry. I was cleaned off, wrapped in a blanket, and brought out to meet my father, now a widower thanks to me. He fell to his knees, the color leached from his face. Padar-jan told me himself that it was three days before he could bring himself to hold the daughter who had taken his wife. I wish I couldn't imagine what thoughts had crossed his mind, but I can. I'm fairly certain that had he been given the choice, he would have chosen my mother over me.

My father did his best but he wasn't built for the task. In his defense, it wasn't easy in those days. Or in any days, for that matter. Padar-jan was the son of a vizier with local clout. People in town turned to my grandfather for counsel, mediation, and loans. My grandfather, Boba-jan, was even tempered, resolute, and sagacious. He made decisions easily and didn't waver in the face of dissent. I don't know if he was always right, but he spoke with such conviction that people believed he was.

Soon after he was married, Boba-jan had come upon a substantial amount of land through a clever trade. The fruits of this land fed and housed generations of our family. My grandmother, Bibi-jan, who died two years before my tragic birth, had given him four sons, my father being the youngest. Her four sons had all grown up enjoying the privilege their father had secured for them. The family was respected in town, and each of my uncles had married well, inheriting a portion of the land on which they each started their own families.

My father, too, owned land—an orchard, to be exact—and worked as a local official in our town, Kabul, the bustling capital of Afghanistan tucked away in the bosom of central Asia. The geography would become important to me only later in my life. Padar-jan was merely a faded carbon copy of my grandfather, not penned with enough pressure to imprint strong characters. He had Boba-jan's good intentions but lacked his resolve.

Padar-jan had inherited his piece of the family estate, the orchard, when he married my mother. He devoted himself to that orchard, tending to it morning and night, climbing its trees to pluck the choicest fruits and berries for my mother. On hot summer nights, he would sleep among the trees, intoxicated by the plush branches and the sweet scent of ripe peaches. He would barter part of the orchard's yield for household staples and services and seemed satisfied with what he was able to garner in this way. He was content and didn't seek much beyond his lot.

My mother, from the bits and pieces I heard growing up, was a beautiful woman. Thick locks of ebony fell below her shoulders. She had warm eyes and regal cheekbones. She hummed while she worked, always wore a green pendant, and was well known for her mouthwatering aush, delicate noodles and spiced ground beef in a yogurt broth that warmed bellies in the harsh winter. My parents' short-lived marriage had been a happy arrangement, judging by the way my father's eyes would well up on the rare occasion he spoke of her. Though it took me almost a lifetime to do it, I put together what I knew of my mother and convinced myself that she had most likely forgiven my trespass against her. I would never see her, but I still needed to feel her love.

About a year after their marriage, my mother gave birth to a healthy baby boy. My father took a first look at his son's robust form and named him Asad, the lion. My grandfather whispered the azaan, or call to prayer, in Asad's newborn ear, baptizing him as a Muslim. I doubt Asad was any different then. Most likely, he didn't hear Boba-jan's azaan, already distracted by mischief and ignoring the call to be righteous.

Excerpted from When the Moon Is Low by Nadia Hashimi. Copyright © 2015 by Nadia Hashimi. Excerpted by permission of William Morrow. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.