But I never knew how close I had come to losing him.
How hard he fought to stay with us, even if it made him into a Borg drone.
I didn’t want to lose him.
And he didn’t want to lose me.
He just didn’t know how to say it out loud.
I think I understood my father better than I ever had before.
Mamou made my favorite dish for dinner: zereshk polow, which is rice mixed with sweetened dried red barberries.
Red barberries are small berries that look like rubies, except they have little nipples on them.
It sounds weird, but they are delicious: tiny pouches of sweet, tart happiness.
In Iran, birthdays aren’t that big a deal. There was no singing or cake. Mom and Dad said they were going to give me my gifts when we got home. But Mamou and Babou gave me a beautiful antique copper teapot—it was hand-beaten and everything—and a pair of cleats. They were the same as Sohrab’s, except blue, and sized for my Hobbit feet.
I still felt terrible about Sohrab, no matter what anyone said.
I hugged and kissed my grandparents, and Babou surprised me when he kissed me back on the cheek. He held me by my elbows and looked at me.
“Darioush,” he said, so soft, only I could hear him. “Sohrab is hurting right now. But it’s not your fault.”
“Um.”
“You are a good friend, baba. And he is lucky to know you.”
He let me go and patted me on the cheek.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
After dinner—and tea and qottab—Mom helped me pack.
I didn’t need the help, but I knew, without her saying, it was because she wanted to spend a little time with me.
The Dancing Fan was dancing harder than it had ever danced before. It knew this would be its last performance.
I had a basket full of clean laundry next to me, and I handed Mom shirts to fold. She had this cool trick where she got them into perfect squares, with the sleeves tucked into the center.
She pulled out the Team Melli jersey. It had cleaned up nicely, despite me depositing the entire contents of my sinuses on it, not to mention a gallon of stress hormones.
That jersey had been my talisman—my Persian camouflage—but now I was going home. I didn’t need it anymore.
Maybe I had never needed it.
Maybe I never should have tried being something I wasn’t.
I packed the jersey and covered it with my folded boxers to keep it safe. Just in case.
“Anything else?”
I shook my head.
“You sad to be going home?”
