I manage to write another paragraph, then close my laptop, wander into the living room, and collapse on the couch. My mom has given up on ordering groceries and is scrolling through the news.

“I never thought I’d see this kind of failure of leadership in this country. On every level.”

I shrug. “Maybe it’ll lead to a revolution. You know, power to the people.”

“I don’t know about that,” my mom laments. “Things only got worse in Iran after the revolution.”

“This isn’t Iran,” I remind her.

“Yes, well, there was a time when Iran wasn’t ‘Iran.’ It’s only fitting that America would screw itself up for once.”

“You shouldn’t complain about America. You’re immigrants. A lot of people would say we’re lucky just to be here.”

My mom shakes her head, disappointed. “Immigrants are allowed to be critical, Parisa. We gave up a lot to be here.”

I nod, knowing she’s right and embarrassed that I said what I said in the first place.

Luckily, she doesn’t give me a rundown on America’s problematic foreign policy. Instead, she distractedly asks if I’m keeping up with my schoolwork, and I lie and say I’ve met all my deadlines. My parents don’t exactly have the time or energy to be tiger parents, but they feel an obligation to make sure I’m never phoning it in. I like to indulge them, but sometimes I wonder if it’s yet another sign that they don’t know anything about me.

I am, after all, the child of immigrants. My work ethic is my superpower. What I lack in natural talent, I more than make up for in grit and perseverance. Our high ceilings, carport, and infinity pool are all products of their hard work. Of my grandparents’ fearlessness. Of all the sacrifices that had to be turned into surplus. That’s probably why they try to ignore the fact that I’d be much happier as a struggling writer than a wealthy software engineer. A true child of immigrants wouldn’t entertain a pipe dream.

“Then go work on your college essay,” my mom tells me. “We can’t just assume they’ll push the application deadlines.”

“Fine,” I reply, with a sigh.