Mamou said, “Babou is okay.”
I knew he wasn’t okay. Not really. She didn’t have to say it out loud.
“I love you, Mamou.” I set down my tea and hugged her.
“I love you too, maman.” She kissed me on the cheek, and then she smiled again. “Do you like broccoli?”
“Uh. Sure.”
I had no strong feelings on broccoli. And I wasn’t prepared for the conversation’s sudden and inexplicable course correction. Fariba Bahrami was a Level Ten Topic Changer when she needed to be.
“I’ll make you some tomorrow. You want anything before bed?”
“No. I’m okay.”
I washed our dishes while Mamou put away the sabzi Babou and Laleh had picked through. “You are like your dad,” she said. “He always helps in the kitchen too.”
“He does?”
“I remember, when we came for the wedding. Your dad always did the dishes. He wouldn’t let me help at all. Your dad is so sweet.”
There it was again.
Stephen Kellner: sweet.
“You are sweet too, Darioush-jan.”
“Um.”
Mamou pulled me down to kiss me again. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Me too.”
PERSIAN CASUAL
Dad woke me up the next morning, shaking my shoulder.
“You naked?”
“What? No.”
“Good. Happy Nowruz, Darius.” Dad rubbed my hair.
He didn’t even comment on its length.
“Happy Nowruz, Dad.”
Like I said, there were special rules forStar Trek—or at least there used to be, before Dad changed them on me—rules where we got to be a real father and son.
At Nowruz, the same rules applied. But this time, our father-son relationship had an audience.
The Dancing Fan had been creeping up on Dad, a relentless Borg drone determined to assimilate us both, but as soon as he glanced at it, it stopped moving.
Resistance was futile.
“Better get dressed. Your uncle Soheil is coming soon.”
“What time is it?”
