When Amir was young, we used to solve multiplication tables in the doctor’s office. His mother was always worried about his health, and if he so much as coughed or sniffled, she would make me take him to the doctor. So we were there a lot, and we passed the time with math. He was brilliant, Amir. He knew every answer: six times nine, twelve times fifteen, twenty times twenty-two. He solved every problem I gave him in the snap of my fingers. I remember thinking he was going to be a doctor himself one day. Maybe a scientist like his dad. My son was going to go further than I ever had. That much I knew.

And so it is difficult, sir, to see him changing like this, so drastically. It changes the image that I had for him.

The world is a hard place, sir. It is even harder for people who are different. I know this firsthand. I don’t want Amir to know that.

When I was in my twenties, I knew a boy named Michael. He and I were lab partners together in my PhD program. Michael was brilliant. I was not the most organized person back then—I did not have all my systems in place—but thanks to Michael, I passed every advanced chemistry class. We were a team. Once I asked Michael if he had a girlfriend, and he told me he did not, that he was—that he was not interested in women. I responded politely, but Michael, I believe, got the message. It was near the end of the semester, and the following semester, we chose different lab partners.

I lost touch with Michael. Last week, as I was thinking about Amir, I looked Michael up on Facebook. I found him. He is alive. He seems happy with his, um, family. I remember back to when I was a student, how disgusted I felt—betrayed, almost—by what I had learned about my lab partner. I don’t know how I feel about it now, but I did send Michael a friend request. I am still waiting to see if he will accept.

I don’t want to lose Amir like that. My love for Amir—the boy I raised doing multiplication tables in the doctor’s office, the boy I taught how to drive, the boy I—it’s too much. I can’t lose him.

So to answer your question, yes. I love Amir. I am not certain about all the other things, but I am certain that I love my son.

One Day Ago

SOMEONE WAS TAPPING the side of my bed. I craned my head over the edge, my eyes still half-closed. Neil was standing below, the sun shining behind him through the sliding glass door to the apartment.

“Hey,” Neil said. “Hey, Amir. Wake up.”

“Buongiorno,” I said, opening my eyes.

Neil was looking at me in a very serious way. I heard footsteps outside, a group of people coming up the apartment building stairs.

“I don’t really know how to tell you this . . .” Neil’s voice trailed off.