“You know what I remember?”
“What?”
“There was this day... I was seven or eight, and me and Mahvash had gone to the park to play. We were friends growing up. Did I tell you that?”
She had not told me that.
It was weird, imagining Mom having childhood friends.
But I liked that Mom was friends with Mahvash, and now I was friends with her son.
“Anyway, we had gone barefoot, because it was a cool morning. But when lunchtime came around, we tried to leave the grass, and the pavement was too hot.”
Mom got this funny smile on her face.
“When we didn’t make it home, Babou came and found us. But he didn’t know why we were there, and he hadn’t brought us any shoes.”
“Oh, no,” I said.
“So he carried Mahvash back home, piggyback, and left me in the park. He told me it would teach me to be more responsible.”
That sounded like something Babou would do.
“But when he came back, he had forgotten to swing by our house and get shoes for me. So he had to carry me home too.”
That made me smile.
“He was so strong,” Mom said. And then she sniffled.
I put down my towel and tried to give Mom a sideways hug, but she shook me off.
“I’m okay.” She pushed her glasses up again. “I’m sorry I didn’t teach you Farsi.”
“What?”
I didn’t understand. Our conversation had made a particularly confusing Slingshot Maneuver.
“It was my job to teach you. To make sure you knew where you came from. And I really screwed up.”
“Mom...”
She put down her sponge and turned off the sink.
“It was hard for me, you know? Moving to America. When I left here, I was sure I was going to come back. But I didn’t. I fell in love with your dad and stayed, even though I never really felt at home. When you were born I wanted you to grow up American. So you would feel like you belonged.”
I understood that. I really did.
School was hard enough, being a Fractional Persian. I’m not sure I would have survived being Even More Persian.
Mom shook her head. “You’re so much like your dad. In so many ways. But you’re my son too. I tried to do better as you got older, but I think it helped your sister more than it helped you.”
I mean.
It would have been nice to learn Farsi like Laleh.
“I’m sorry, Darius.”
Now that it was just us—all the True Persians had gone to bed—I was back to my American name.
