Sometimes, when I looked at my parents, I was afraid. I
didn’t want to end up like them. But Keyvan and I were different; our love
would never fade.
I went to the dining room. Everyone was sitting at the
table and Maman was dishing out khoresh-e gheimeh.
“Manijeh joon, you’ve gone to so much
trouble. Look at all this food,” Aunty Afrouz said.
“What, this? No trouble at all,” Maman said. She
pointed at a bowl of pickles. “Try the torshi. I picked it up from
Majid’s the other day.”
Aunty Afrouz dipped a spoon in. “Oooh, delicious,”
she said, pursing her lips from the tartness.
“Baba’s watching the news,” I said.
Maman passed plates of lamb and split pea stew down the
table. “He’ll have to have his supper cold then,” she said.
“What is it about men and television,” Aunty Afrouz
