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ocially legitimate half； the half that represented the riches he had inherited and the sin…with…impunity privileges that came with them。 When he saw you； he saw himself。 And his guilt。 You are still angry and I realize it is far too early to expect you to accept this； but maybe someday you will see that when your father was hard on you； he was also being hard on himself。 Your father； like you； was a tortured soul； Amir jan。
I cannot describe to you the depth and blackness of the sorrow that came over me when I learned of his passing。 I loved him because he was my friend； but also because he was a good man； maybe even a great man。 And this is what I want you to understand； that good； real good； was born out of your father s remorse。 Sometimes； I think everything he did； feeding the poor on the streets； building the orphanage； giving money to friends in need； it was all his way of redeeming himself。 And that； I believe； is what true redemption is； Amir jan； when guilt leads to good。
I know that in the end； God will forgive。 He will forgive your father； me； and you too。 I hope you can do the same。 Forgive your father if you can。 Forgive me if you wish。 But； most important； forgive yourself。
I have left you some money； most of what I have left； in fact。 I think you may have some expenses when you return here； and the money should be enough to cover them。 There is a bank in Peshawar； Farid knows the location。 The money is in a safe…deposit box。 I have given you the key。
As for me； it is time to go。 I have little time left and I wish to spend it alone。 Please do not look for me。 That is my final request of you。
I leave you in the hands of God。
Your friend always；
Rahim
I dragged the hospital gown sleeve across my eyes。 I folded the letter and put it under my mattress。
Amir； the socially legitimate half； the half that represented the riches he had inherited and the sin…with…impunity privileges that came with them。 Maybe that was why Baba and I had been on such better terms in the U。S。； I wondered。 Selling junk for petty cash； our menial jobs； our grimy apartment……the American version of a hut； maybe in America； when Baba looked at me； he saw a little bit of Hassan。
Your father； like you； was a tortured soul； Rahim Khan had written。 Maybe so。 We had both sinned and betrayed。 But Baba had found a way to create good out of his remorse。 What had I done； other than take my guilt out on the very same people I had betrayed； and then try to forget it all？ What had I done； other than bee an insomniac？
What had I ever done to right things？
When the nurse……not Aisha but a red…haired woman whose name escapes me……walked in with a syringe in hand and asked me if I needed a morphine injection； I said yes。
THEY REMOVED THE CHEST TUBE early the next morning； and Armand gave the staff the go…ahead to let me sip apple juice。 I asked Aisha for a mirror when she placed the cup of juice on the dresser next to my bed。 She lifted her bifocals to her forehead as she pulled the curtain open and let the morning sun flood the room。 Remember； now； she said over her shoulder； it will lo