“My brothers and sisters were never so sleepy,” Vathana cried back. “Never.”
“You don’t love your own child, woman,” Teck snorted. He fumbled in the closet pulling out first a pair of white trousers, then beige, then light yellow. “What’s all the noise out there?”
Vathana opened the bedroom door. Her eyes glistened with tears though she was not crying. From the street voices, shouts, could be heard though words couldn’t be distinguished. “We should have him examined by the doctors in Phnom Penh,” Vathana said.
“You’re a worrisome farmer’s daughter,” Teck shot back.
“And you”—Vathana’s tears burst—“you...you’re more French than Khmer.” In Khmer she added, “A Khmer man would never treat his wife or son so.”
From outside a subdued crackling staccato of firecrackers or automatic rifles co
