“Why haven’t I ever seen these?” I ask. Part of me is grateful that my moms are sharing a past they’d rather forget. Another part of me is furious it’s taken them so damn long. I’m not sure what’s worse—growing up with a big family, then losing it, or never growing up with one at all.

“It hurts to look at them,” Elena admits. “They’re our parents. Our sisters, brothers, cousins… None of them ever came looking for us.”

Even though Elena and Julia were the ones who left home, it was really their families who abandoned them. It was their families who wanted them to stay, only if they were willing to deny a huge part of their identities. I look at my moms, and I don’t just see two adult women who’ve fought tooth and nail to keep a roof over our heads. Instead, I see two teenage girls who risked everything to be themselves. I’m ashamed that there were times I conflated their heroism with selfishness. If they hadn’t been so brave, I wouldn’t be here.

“So then fuck ’em,” I reply.

“Right. Fuck ’em,” Elena says.

I keep the picture of my doppelgänger grandma, but I’ve seen enough of the rest. I toss them back into the box and wonder how Abuela Reina could not try to find us. How could she sleep with baby Julia pressed against her chest in one photograph, and then not spend her days banging on our door, begging for forgiveness?

My moms clear the table while I throw on whatever clothes I can find on the floor, then I take a seat in front of my laptop. For once, I’m glad that I have to start my day with computer science. The assignments are methodical and tedious, and my mind goes into a meditative state when I’m writing code. I glance at Wes in his Zoom box. He looks so cute in his San Francisco Giants hoodie. He admitted to me the other day that it actually belonged to his mom, and I thought it was so sweet that he would wear a woman’s sweatshirt to feel close to her. I grab the photo of my grandmother and tape it next to a blank canvas.

It’s your loss, not mine, I think to myself as I stare at a face that’s foreign and familiar all at the same time.

PARISA

“How are you doing today, Parisa joon?” my new Persian therapist asks me. “How was your Norouz?”

I respond with a shrug and mumble, “It was okay.”