“Doesn’t everyone want to be happy?”
The question seems absurd coming from her. “Yeah, but a person can’t be happy all the time. Especially right after their dad dies.” I crack on the last two words, and they come out broken.
There’s another, longer pause on the other end of the line. “Menare simple creatures,” she says finally. “They want simple lives, no complications.”
“But life isn’t simple. Terrible things happen, and we need support through them. Like how Dad supported you in the tough times after you immigrated. Or how I supported you when we lost Dad.” She’s quiet, not acknowledging what I said—maybe not knowing how to. I finger the cold pack in my lap. “I may not be an expert, but I don’t think relationships are meant to make you feel lonely.”
“But you wouldn’t be alone—you’d have him.”
“But he made mefeelalone,” I say.
“You wouldn’tbealone, though,” she says emphatically. “Anything is better than being alone, Anahid jan. I promise you.”
My stomach contracts. I picture her, by herself, in the bungalow’s small kitchen, the yellowed wallpaper behind her dotted with cheerful pomegranate vines. The recliner in the living room notably empty. The cable-knit sweater vest lying limply on a box in the basement, his scent dissipating more from it every day. The person meant to fill the house, to fill her heart, absent.
Maybe being alone is worse for her. Maybe her relationship with Dad made her feel understood, accepted, beloved, and she can’t imagine anything worse than being without him. My heart aches for her, because if anybody understands the pain of losing Vahag Movilian, it’s me.
But our experiences of partnership and romantic love are not the same. Nathan didn’t want to know all of me, and I didn’t want to let him. I guess I felt it would herald the end, because nobody had ever accepted all of me. And that subconscious instinct was right. When my grief could no longer be contained, he retreated.
It’s deeply painful to be in the presence of the people who are supposed to love you the most and feel alone.
As opposed to being with a relative stranger—a colleague, thena friend, then a lover—and feeling less lonely than you ever have in your life.
Maybe self-awareness or emotional acuity are too much to expect from Mom. She may never get it. But that’s okay. My feelings are valid, whether or not she understands them. I’ll continue to give her the chance, and maybe one day we’ll connect emotionally. Or maybe we won’t. I can’t change her, but I don’t have to. I can still heal, move forward, regardless.
It won’t be easy, I know that. But if the many people I’ve met while runningSo Proud of Youare any indication, I’ll figure it out. I have a whole community behind me.
And I have me behind me.
Chapter 25
Grayson, the mustachioed Infinitude Symposium coordinator, leads Maral and me through throngs of attendees to the main ballroom of the gargantuan Marriott Marquis in Midtown. Navigating the many escalators and corridors is practically a workout.
We’re seated at a speakers’ table near the front, where Shanthi is already set up to record the livestream of my speech. Grayson says he’ll cue me a few minutes before I’m set to go up and races away, presumably to deal with some emergency or other.
I sit quietly through the first couple of speakers, flanked by Shanthi and Maral, only barely registering that this may be the last time the three of us attend an event together. Which is good, because my makeup can’t stand another water feature so close to showtime.
“Are you okay?” Maral whispers as the MC takes the stage again. “You’re really…chill.”
“I’m always chill,” I say.
She rolls her eyes before getting distracted by the woman to her right asking her to pass the water jug.
She’s not wrong, though. My legs are motionless under the table and I haven’t been fiddling with the conference packet or my water glass or my phone. Which is all very weird. Maybe it’s thatmy emotional stores have been depleted, but I’m actually feeling…fine. At peace. Like something has settled into place inside my chest. Something new, but honest and real. And while I don’t fully understand it yet, it feels good.
To my left, Shanthi is examining the angle of the camera on her phone, set up on a small tabletop tripod. I lean closer to her. “Hey, you can check if specific accounts are logged in to the Live, right?”
“Yeah,” she says. “You want to know if the Scope people are watching? Do you know their handles?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I know it’s stupid to hope, but after my call with Celine earlier…“Searchaintlovegrant.”
Her eyes dart to mine. She remembers our conversation with Ryan about Instagram—the revelation of his ridiculous username. “Sure, I’ll look out for him.”
“Cool. I owe you one.”
She makes a face. “I work for you.”
“A raise, then,” I say, just as Grayson signals me to join him at stage left. I rise from my seat, leaning down to Shanthi. “Or better yet—want to be my new brand manager?”
