Shahla’s maman is a thoughtless woman who has reached this age without saving a single penny. My maman has so much savings that nobody knows the exact amount, and in those evenings when she feels down and nobody is around, she brings it out. Counting her money over and over, she wraps a thick rubber band around each bundle.

Shahla’s maman is an old woman who thinks about the other world, but my maman has only recently found time to think about this world.

Shahla’s maman is a woman who tolerated all kinds of misery and remained faithful to her husband to the end, but my maman remained loyal to herself more than anybody else.

When Shahla talks about Maman I listen quietly. The woman Shahla talks about is only her maman.

She waves her hand in front of my eyes and snaps her fingers. “Where are you?”

I say, “With Mahin. I miss her.”

And I don’t tell Shahla that I had gone to Mahin to talk about the maman I knew.

Chapter 45

45

I write:

Dear Mahin

Maman is sick. Shahla is supposed to get the results of Maman’s tests tomorrow. She thinks it’s better for Maman to lose some weight. Maman quietly says, “She wants to kill me with hunger.”

I bring Maman home with me for a few days. The neighbors come to visit her. Amir advises, “Don’t let those people come in the house.”

Maman says, “The son of a government minister is not as stuck-up as your husband.”

Maman is weeping and puts her hand on her chest. “It hurts here. It hurts a lot.”

I remember Aunt Mahboub. She also used to put her hand on her heart saying it hurt. I remember well that her hand wouldn’t go down. Instead she would move her hand toward her necklace, fixing it on her cleavage. Rubbing her throat, she would ask, “Do you know how to get rid of these tiny freckles?”

She had traits that Maman doesn’t. Maman is not made of the same clay.

She says, “I am afraid to have a heart attack like Mahboub.”

Maman is submerged in her thoughts.

You can’t tell if she is thinking about Aunt Mahboub’s death or her own.

“What’s the use of being alive like Qadir?”

The neighbors would hear Uncle Qadir’s sobbing through the night calling for Aunt Mahboub.

“Or like that blessed soul.” Then she says, “Peace upon him.”

Which one of the dead is she blessing, I ask?

“Mahboub. My poor sister. It wasn’t her time yet.”

Perhaps she will give a second blessing too. But no. Nobody is here to pretend for. It’s only me and her. Like the night that Maman and I were awake. You were not home. Shahla was asleep.