A Very Large Expanse of Sea

When I was a kid and would tell my mom that people at school were mean to me, she’d pat me on the head and tell me stories about how she’d lived through war and an actual revolution […] so, hey, why don’t you just eat your Cheerios and walk it off, you ungrateful American child.

Food was a fixture in our home, and in Persian culture in general. Mealtimes were gathering moments, and my parents never allowed us to break this tradition, no matter how badly we wanted to watch something on TV or had somewhere else we wanted to be.

There was something in Jacobi’s eyes that was sympathetic in a way I’d never experienced before. It wasn’t pity. It was recognition. He actually seemed to acknowledge me, my pain, and my anger, in a way no one else ever had.

Not my parents. Not even my brother.

[M]y mother asked him again if he wanted more tea and he said no, thank you, and she poured him more tea anyway, and she asked him if he wanted more food and he said no, thank you, and she filled four large Tupperware containers with leftovers and stacked them in front of him.

“Baba,” I said.”

“Hmm?” He turned a page.

“How do you know if you’ve done the right thing?” […]

He watched me for a second, and I knew he was saying, without speaking, that I could tell him what was on my mind. But I wasn’t ready.