Despite the fact that my mom and dad practically grew up in America, they have one very Iranian tendency: They only trust fellow Persians when it comes to any sort of monetary transaction. This is why our real estate agent, contractor, dentist, pediatrician, accountant, car insurance rep, dry cleaner, handyman, and personal shopper at Nordstrom’s are all Iranian. And it’s also why my new therapist is Iranian. I try to give Banafsheh (aka Bonnie) the benefit of the doubt, but I have a hard time trusting Persian women who have blond highlights and blue contact lenses and lip injections.

Why should I be taking advice from someone who’s felt the need to change every natural thing about herself? At first, I decide I’ll only speak Farsi during our appointments so that I can at least practice my second language, but I retire that idea when Bonnie insists on responding in English with her thick Persian accent. I already feel like we’re speaking a different language, so literally speaking a different one only compounds the awkwardness. If I’m not going to brush up on my Farsi, then I’ll at least use the opportunity to do research for my novel.

“What do you know about inherited trauma?” I ask Bonnie.

Today is our third session, and I’ve already given up any hope that she’s going to heal me. “Like, do you think I could have anxiety just from everything my parents and grandparents went through during the revolution?”

Bonnie smiles. She has red lipstick on her teeth. I don’t know why I consider this more evidence that she can’t be trusted.

“Parisa joon,” she says, “we’re not here to diagnose you. We’re here to talk. Tell me more about how you are feeling. Your face looks much better than the last time we spoke.”

“I feel great,” I lie.

“Have you driven the car again?”

“Once. A few days ago. It wasn’t scary at all,” I lie again.

The real answer is that I tried to drive the car with Neda yesterday and felt a panic attack coming on before I could even back out of the driveway. She took the keys from me, and we promptly went back inside the house and finished binge-watching My So-Called Life, this old TV show that my mom convinced us to check out.

“I loved it when I was your age, and I swear, it still holds up.”

By the end, I liked the show, but I thought Angela was far too stable for a teenage girl.

“Tell me a little about your friend Gabriel,” Bonnie asks, trying to get my attention.

“Gabriela,” I correct her.