Dancing To The Darkest Light: A Remarkable True Story of Life, Its Extreme Challenges and Triumph Over the Ultimate Heartbreak

By Soheila Adelipour

"He who has a 'why' to live for can bear almost any 'how.'" But how to go on when all that you live for and love is taken, in blow after agonizing blow? ‘Dancing To The Darkest Light’ tackles the big questions in a tale of finding grace in a brutally unkind world. It is the heartwarming saga of a loving fami

• Language: English
• Publisher: Soheila Adelipour
• Release date: Sep 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733712651

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Prologue

New York, July, 2013

Ablack hole; Dante’s fifth ring of hell; a Roach Motel… you check in but you can’t check out. For us, Mount Sinai hospital—especially the MICU floor, medical intensive care unit, for people with little chance of survival—had become a grim, depressing, and hopeless place, every inch of it permeated by disappointment, heartbreak, fear, and profound sadness.

We had struggled for so long to be positive and strong; to keep each other smiling and laughing; to move on and embrace each day with an all-too-transparent masquerade of normalcy. Eventually our expectations of a return to some version of our previously ordinary lives dwindled, even as we defied the black cloud that hovered and threatened. Our outlook had turned gloomy. Our resolve was weakening, and we were anticipating the very worst.

Our family had always been staunchly anti-drug. Taking a pill for a headache or a capsule for indigestion was a big deal, an act we carefully considered, distrusted, and resisted. And yet, there we were, all of us hungrily pursuing, divvying up, and then gulping down Vitamin X. Xanax was the essential quick-fix. Vitamin X was now part of the new normal: a comforting friend; a source of confidence; a new safety net; our new Hamptons getaway; our new yoga. Without that magic pill, sleep had become impossible. Even my elderly mother was on Vitamin X. We were a close-knit unit; all for X, and X for all. And so, we shared our pills. We had become our own professional drug dealers. This was our new normal.

Hey, how many do you have left? Can you spare a few?

Anxiously: No, I only have enough for three more days!

Okay, no problem. Let me have a few. I promise I’ll give them back as soon as I can fill my new prescription.

Nervously: I don’t know. What if I run out and go dry?

We all knew enough to have a couple handy for when our mother started to sob. We’d push one in her mouth and beg her to swallow. She’d cry and shake her head, resisting its comfort. I want to die, I want to die. I cannot bear the thought of me still here and him gone.

It was crushing to see her like that.

Twenty minutes after giving in and swallowing, she’d be sitting on a chair in the waiting room—the visitor’s lounge that had become our makeshift living room/kitchen/dining room and my bedroom—like a zombie.

Now, how many do you have left? We immediately started checking inventory. Momon should be good for another five hours. The vitamin is working again, we whispered to each other.

None of us smoked or drank; recreational drugs were not even in our vocabulary. The idea of prescription drugs left us feeling uneasy. Years before, after foot surgery, my doctor had prescribed a considerable supply of Vicodin for pain—more than enough to see me through a future nose job or facelift. After a single dose, I stopped, preferring to endure the pain rather than suffer the miserable side effects of those dreaded pills.

This was an altogether different type of suffering, though. This was not post-surgery swelling, throbbing, and cramping. This was not a migraine. This was an emotional ordeal—cruel, unrelenting, and interminable. But worse still, it was familiar. We were once tormented during the revolution in Iran in 1979 when we left behind everything we knew and headed towards what would become our first new normal. The freedom we lost, the home that was confiscated, the identity we left behind—eventually replaced by the freedom of democracy, a new home, and eventually naturalization papers and a new hyphenated identity.

Then… Stephen. Losing my precious twenty-two-year-old prince catapulted me into a devastating new new normal. I had to learn to stop waiting for him to walk through the front door and listening for the sound of his car coming up the driveway. I had to remind myself every second of every day that I owed it to my other precious sons to keep pushing through without letting anyone see that a huge part of my heart had been lost on the day I hugged him good-bye for the last time. And just like the first time around, this new new normal also led me to a new town, a new home and a search for a new life.

And then… Zohreh. After a very long battle with a brain tumor, my sister Zohreh died an untimely death a few years after Stephen. But this brand-new new normal, was no ordinary normal. By the time of my sister’s death I had fallen back and forth through the looking glass so many times that nothing would ever be normal again.

On the day we buried Zohreh, my brother, Fariborz stayed at home, telling everyone he was recovering from a walking pneumonia. The truth was that he had already been diagnosed with leukemia and started a first round of chemo. His immune system had been compromised, and a simple handshake could have proven fatal. Other than his wife, I was the only one entrusted with this secret. But less than two months after the burial of our sister, my brother’s secret was out. His condition deteriorated so quickly that he had to be hospitalized in MICU. We could no longer keep it from my mom. His life was hanging by a thread.

In this brand-new new normal, Xanax came reliably to our rescue each and every night. The very notion of growing dependent on a drug freaked us all out, but there seemed no other way. Ironically, the tables had turned. My kids, nieces and nephews worried about my siblings and me. They hid our precious stash, giving us quotas and doling out dosages. They threatened us, recoiling as they watched us fighting over the last pill. They were concerned and afraid. It seemed the natural order of our family, along with everything else, had simply turned upside down.

But in the stifling environment of the MICU region of the hospital, ever-present anxiety, constant minute-to-minute worry, and cloying stress consumed us. We needed to be strong and present for our only brother, Fariborz, and my terrorized mother. At any cost. Even if doing so meant creating a bunch of pill-popping addicts out of us all.

Life in Ahwaz: The Bloody Girl In the Carpet

"We are all born ignorant, but one must work hard

to remain stupid." —Benjamin Franklin

Iran, 1955

Late one night my young newlywed parents were awakened by an unexpected pounding on their front door. Open up, Mrs. Doctor, an angry voice ordered as strong fists pounded. We have a patient for you.

Who is that? my father asked frantically.

I have no idea, my mother replied, while quickly putting her clothes on.

Open the door, I said, demanded the man outside.

Should we call the police? my father suggested, nervously looking out the window.

My mother tried to remain calm behind the locked door. It’s the middle of the night, she called out. Please come to my office in the morning.

No! We can’t wait till tomorrow. Open the door now or I will break it down. Your patient is here with us, the man yelled. We won’t wait.

Nearly frozen with fear, my father struggled to undo the locks and slowly began to open the door. With violent force, he was slammed against the wall as three visitors pushed their way inside. Two men dressed in tribal clothing, accompanied by a woman covered head to toe in a black chador, were carrying a rolled-up Persian rug. It was soaked through and dripping, leaving a bloody trail behind them on the shiny wooden floor. The intruders dropped the rug onto the floor in the middle of the living room and kicked it open with blood-stained shoes. As the rug unrolled, my parents took a step back in shock and horror. A young teenage girl, semi-conscious, her clothes and hair saturated with blood, lay moaning and crying from pain in front of their eyes.

The older man moved forward and stood over the girl. He grabbed her long, knotted wet hair in his large, threatening-looking left hand and held her head up roughly, while using his right hand to hold his machete to her neck.

As Allah is my witness, I will kill this piece of filth.

Until the day they got married, my parents lived in Shiraz, a beautiful city in southern Iran, which is famous for its wine and happy-go-lucky people (probably as a result of the wine). Not particularly ambitious, Shirazees are said to be all about music, food, flowers and, of course, the wine of their region.

The Jewish community in Shiraz was tight and cohesive; they married their own kind and stayed together. My mother was a beautiful, educated and independent twenty-year-old; my father a handsome, tall and broad-shouldered twenty-four-year-old young man who had just started his own business in import/export. They met through a Jewish youth organization and fell in love, which in those days was neither a normal nor conventional route towards marriage. Seven decades ago, most Iranian marriages were arranged when the future couple were both still young children. Girls were expected to marry as teenagers, move into the homes of their new husbands and obey their in-laws unquestioningly.

This was the tradition and the rule, but my mom was an exception. Compared to most Jews in Shiraz, she and her family led charmed lives. They didn’t reside in the Jewish Quarter; they had a beautiful house on a major street, surrounded by verdant orange and lemon trees and a pond filled with brightly-colored red and gold fish. My grandfather was an educated man. He never felt compelled to marry his first daughter off simply to follow custom. My mother wanted to continue with her education, and her father approved. After high school (very few females received a diploma in those days) she applied to medical school, determined to become a midwife, which required three years of study.

My grandmother had married when she was only thirteen, and had my mom a year later. By the time my mother became a midwife, my grandmother was pregnant with her seventh child. When she went into labor, my mom helped to deliver her brother, a nine-pound baby. A year later, my mom gave birth to her own first child, Nahid, my oldest sister. For a while mother and daughter were reproducing simultaneously. By the time my grandmother welcomed her eighth and final child, she was thirty-seven, an age where many modern women are just getting started with motherhood.

Shortly after their marriage, my parents moved to Ahwaz, a southern city close to the Persian Gulf. Living could be difficult there. Summers were brutal, extremely hot and humid. Temperatures rose as high as 120 degrees Fahrenheit. My parents chose the area because of its booming export and import business. My mother started working as a midwife (at the time, there were no gynecologists available) in the local clinic, and my father began trading goods. Little by little, they got to know other Jewish families who had settled there in hopes of making better incomes. Despite the extreme summer heat and my mom’s horrible nausea with her pregnancies, life was good.

My parents joined the private social clubs, became permanent fixtures at every party, and traveled often. After giving birth to three girls in 8 years—Nahid, Zohreh and me—they were quietly longing for a boy. My mother continued working even with three young children; she had a prestigious job, one in which she excelled. She was loved and respected by her patients, who showered her with gifts, whatever they could afford. They brought her fruit baskets, fresh dates, beautiful fabrics, and even chickens and goats. Many of those gifts came from the people who lived in tribes outside of Ahwaz. Each tribe had its own chief who ruled and controlled the people. They were mostly Arabs who’d moved there years before. They relied upon my mother’s services; the idea of taking their wives and daughters to a male doctor, even for a minor examination, was unthinkable. It was members of one of these tribes who made an unexpected appearance at our home late one night.

Oh no! What are you doing? My mother instinctively reached out her arm, putting one hand on the man’s wrist holding the machete to his daughter’s throat. With her other hand, she grabbed hold of the brutalized girl’s wrist to check her pulse. What has been done to this poor child?

Poor child? She is a whore, a slut. I’m ashamed to be her father. It was her wedding tonight—to him, he shouted, pointing to the other man. She was not a virgin; there was no blood on her wedding night. I am going to kill her. Before I finish her off, I want you to examine her and tell me if she has dishonored us or if she was born like this. My wife said that it could be an act of God. You better tell us the truth. If she has lost her virginity I will cut her throat from ear to ear to protect the honor of the family.

The woman, trembling in the corner, started sobbing under her veil and cried, My daughter is pure. She is innocent. She is clean. Have mercy for her, she has done nothing wrong.

Shut up, woman, or I will kill you too! It’s your fault. You gave birth to this filth. Not another word from you, her husband yelled, holding his machete over his wife’s head as if daring her to make another sound. His eyes were burning with rage, his nostrils flaring. He looked like an injured panther ready to attack and kill.

My mother jumped forward and planted herself between the husband and wife. Please, let’s take a breath here. You are not my first family with this problem. I have one every week. Let me examine your child first, then you can honor kill both: your wife and your daughter. But your wife happens to be right. I have seen many cases of virgin girls that were born this way. A lot of them are pure and have done nothing wrong. I can tell you within only a few minutes after a simple exam. I will do that, but I need you to promise that if the result is negative, you will do your killing somewhere else. Not here. Not in my house.

My father, utterly stunned, stared at my mother with his mouth open, as if to say, Kill her somewhere else? Have you gone mad?

Ignoring my father’s shocked look, my mother asked the men to drag the carpet to the other room. Please take her to my bedroom, and leave her there, she said, pointing the way. I can’t examine her in front of you two. I need privacy.

The men, seeming to completely believe that this medical professional would tell them the truth, held the corners of the blood-soaked carpet and pulled it to the bedroom. My mother followed them, trying very carefully not to step in the thick lines of blood left behind. She asked the men to wait outside and locked the door behind her. She then joined her patient, giving the girl some water to sip on and then washing her face. She struggled to focus and not shake as she tenderly explored the young bride’s battered body. The examination revealed the girl was not a virgin—and Allah had nothing to do with it.

What have you done, child? You know the rules. Your father will kill you for this, my mother said. The girl started crying and reached with her bloody hands for my mother’s feet, which she repeatedly kissed. Please do something. I beg of you. It was not my fault. My uncle is the guilty one. He threatened me if I didn’t do as he said, he would kill me. Every time I went to get water, he was there waiting for me. I was so afraid. Please Mrs. Doctor, help me. Please. The girl was trembling.

Poor girl, how old are you?

I will be fifteen next month, the young victim answered.

My mom took her hands. Okay, now listen to me. Stay right here and don’t make a sound, my mother instructed. Leaving the girl, she walked back to the living room.

Allow me to kill her, to slice her filthy body into small pieces, to throw them in the desert. Let the wild beasts feast on her impure, disgusting, and repulsive body, the father yelled, while waving his machete.

Calm down, please, my mother urged. Your daughter is pure. She has done nothing wrong. She is as Allah created her. The same way that he has made people with bigger noses or bigger eyes. They’re all Allah’s creations, and so therefore, perfect. Her virginity is intact.

The woman in the black veil dropped to the floor and cried out, Allah is great, Allah knows best. I told you my daughter is clean. The father, whose face had temporarily softened, turned towards his daughter’s husband, directing his still-simmering anger at him. Did you hear that? Our family’s honor is intact. She is a virgin. Maybe we should blame it on your shortcomings! Our name is good and our dignity unharmed. For the first time since they had entered the house, he kept his machete pointing downward as he spoke.

My mother interrupted, Now you must tend to your innocent daughter. She needs to be taken care of. She looked at the girl’s husband and continued, You are not allowed to touch her until she is 100% healthy. She has lost a lot of blood. She needs to be fed and pampered. And left alone to rest and recover. She took a deep breath and said, And if you want healthy babies, send someone else to fetch water for the family from now on. Preferably a man!

The father looked down at the floor, and quietly said, Yes. He took out a roll of cash and held it in front of my mother in his two huge hands. Mrs. Doctor, please take this. We apologize for the trouble. Take as much as you want. You deserve all of it and more.

I will take just my regular fee, plus the cleaning charges. You have made a mess in my house. She took a portion of the money, and then directed the family towards the door. Take your daughter and nurse her. She needs to get strong again. Please make sure her husband doesn’t touch her for another two months.

Yes, Mrs. Doctor. You have my word.

The family left. As soon as the doors were closed behind them and the coast was clear, my parents exhaled. Then it was my father’s turn to blow a fuse. You can honor kill both, but promise me you won’t kill them here! Have you lost your mind?

Calm down and let me explain, my mother insisted. I had to make sure they would trust me; that they’d believe I was on their side; that I understood their shame. Otherwise he would have suspected my made-up story.

You lied? my father was even more shocked, if possible.

What did you expect? That I’d let that monster cut her throat? Of course, I lied. Now everyone is relieved and alive.

My mother was proud of her stories from her working years. She was written up in the newspaper when she delivered healthy triplets in a tent, and again when the head of a local tribe threatened to burn their hospital down. Hassan was a tall, strong man, with an impressive beard and a huge turban. He came to my mother’s office with his pregnant wife, who was having labor pains, and a massive entourage. Hundreds of Hassan’s men on horses held their swords in the air and stood guard.

She has been in labor for more than twenty-four hours and nothing has happened yet. He approached my mom aggressively and in an intimidating tone said, If anything happens to my wife, I will burn down your hospital. I have my people surrounding this place. No one is allowed to leave until my child and my wife come home healthy. You will do your best or else. I love my wife and I can’t go on living without her.

The wife was a pretty, small-framed young girl. My mother knew it would be very difficult for her to give birth just by looking at her hips. To make matters worse, the baby was bridged. The staff and my mom tried to turn the baby around by putting pressure on the mother’s stomach from different angles. The poor girl kept screaming from the combination of the physical force, my mom’s weight on her, and the labor pains. Her husband, meanwhile, paced back and forth outside of her room, yelling out every once in a while, Fatima, I am here. I will protect you. I will not let anything happen to you.

My mom knew she could not wait any longer, and a C-section was performed on her young patient. If any kind of infection set in, the girl would die for sure. My mother asked for penicillin, which was being widely used across Europe, but in that small hospital in Ahwaz, availability was extremely limited. They just had to keep their fingers crossed and hope the patient would pull through.

My mother stayed in the hospital next to the girl’s bed for the next two days, cleaning and disinfecting her stitches. The husband’s anger had dissipated with the arrival of a bouncy and healthy boy; he was proud and happy. He had an heir. The wife was a different story. She was weak, with a high fever, and her breathing was difficult. My mother’s team did their best, but the girl did not survive. The doctors and my mother huddled in her room, deciding how to break the news to her husband.

Even the police will be outnumbered by Hassan’s men.

But he will be beside himself when we tell him that his wife is dead, one of the doctors said, nervously looking out the window at the men still massed outside on horseback.

My mom got off the chair, headed towards the nursery, and said, I will take care of it.

She walked out, holding the baby in her arms. She handed the newborn to the father and said, Hold your son, your pride and joy. He will rule your tribe one day. He is strong and robust, just like you. Your wife asked me to tell you to take care of him. To make him a powerful and big man like his father. This was her last request, before she left us. My mother took a deep breath.

Now, if you want to burn the hospital down, I can’t stop you, but you will end up in jail and never get a chance to see your beautiful son grow. She paused, letting her words sink in, then added, Take your son home and do as Fatima wished. She will be watching you from heaven.

Tears rolled down the man’s face. Holding his infant child, he held his chin up proudly and showed off his male offspring to everyone. Looking at my mother, he nodded, and left the hospital.

My mom collapsed onto a chair, legs giving out from an equal mixture of mental and physical exhaustion. When she told us that story years later, I wondered how it would have ended if the wife had given birth to a girl.

Life in Tehran

Family is like the branches on a tree, we all grow in different directions, yet our roots remain as one. —Unknown

Tehran, 1960s

Iwas three years old when my parents, having earned enough money to start a new life in the capital city, moved our family to Tehran. Life was simple, mostly happy, what we thought of as normal, with nothing more to trouble us than the ordinary day-to-day problems of a busy, ever-growing family.

Tehran in the ‘70s was calm, safe, and largely uneventful. The evening news was dominated by coverage of the Vietnam War, with its gruesome pictures and footage. That, and the Munich massacre of eleven Israeli athletes during the 1972 Summer Olympics, left a permanent tattoo upon my memory. While the rest of the world still seemed to think of Iranians as backward commuters on camels and donkeys, our lives were pleasant, modern and peaceful.

We respected our parents, never touched drugs or alcohol, and did as we were told. The main religion was Islam, and depending on the neighborhood, almost every religion was accepted or tolerated. Our friends were Jewish as well as Arminian, Christian, Bahai, Zoroastrian and Muslim. No one cared about our beliefs; if they did, they kept their thoughts to themselves.

The fashions were the latest from Europe: skirts were very short, heels were high, and bikinis tiny. The camels that were our preferred mode of transportation were either Chevrolets, Cadillacs, BMWs, Mercedes-Benzes, Fiats, or Peykans, a model manufactured in Iran with great pride that was unfortunately neither functional nor safe. Rolls-Royces and Bentleys belonged to the royal family and were forbidden to the general public.

The Shah and his family were respected and feared. Everyone spoke about them with the utmost politeness and caution. One could never be sure who was listening. Making anti-Shah comments or criticizing the government was the kiss of death. Members of SAVAK (the Shah’s secret service) were everywhere, listening carefully to everything.

Jews in Iran were exempt from that fear. The Shah and the royal family knew very well that we appreciated the freedom and the safe haven we were living in. Every city still had its Jewish Quarter, with poor living conditions and constant verbal attacks from Muslims, who considered Jews impure and filthy, but that was their belief system and had nothing to do with the official government stance. The Jews tried hard to succeed in business and little by little they started leaving those horrible conditions. The ones that made it in the business world lived charmed lives and enjoyed the fruits of their hard work.

Nightclubs and cabarets were destination playgrounds for anyone who could afford them. They were all given Western names: Cafe Lido, Chattanooga Restaurant, Cabaret Baccarat, suggesting a hint of that opulent land far, far, away, where everything was bigger, more beautiful, and far more interesting. The shows were wannabe Vegas revues, with singers dressed in the latest fashions. Money was a non-issue for people who had it, and the good life was available for them to enjoy.

We spent most of our hot summer days in Khadem Abad, a region verdant with lush fruit trees and flowers on the outskirts of Tehran. The drives to our vacation home there were always filled with laughter and enthusiasm. We settled in excitedly after arriving, eagerly looking forward to swimming, playing volleyball, and climbing trees in the great outdoors. Our mother prepared and packed up lunch early each morning, and then we’d spend the whole day outdoors by the public pool. Of course, there were also the diving lessons my father oversaw. A tough and strict taskmaster, he ran the show. When I tried to complain, he wasn’t swayed.

My back hurts, I appealed. Look, it’s all red from landing on the water the wrong way.

Go put on a T-shirt. That will lessen the impact, he ordered. And make it quick.

Babajoon, please. My skin is on fire. Can I stop now?

If you want to learn how to flip from a diving board, this is the time and place to do it. You can’t give up now. Go put on your shirt. Now. Run! His tone was firmer. I walked down the diving board ladder, water dripping from my skin-and-bone body, back stinging, and began searching for something protective to wear. There was no point in arguing. There never was.

My younger siblings Nazee, Fariborz, and I played, swam, talked to friends, climbed trees, picked fresh fruit, and threw Frisbees under the sun all day long. But our father made sure we were always learning and improving our skills, whether it be swimming, diving, volleyball, or even holding our breath under the water for long periods of time. To do otherwise would have been a waste of a good day for him.

Our father was well-read, self-taught, very informed—but also serious, opinionated, authoritarian, and, at times, a dictator. If he thought that I was a good athlete and an opportunity arose for me to learn to flip off a diving board, I had to practice flipping like a dolphin until I did so to perfection. Each of us kids knew what was expected from us: to do our best and do so extraordinarily, because merely good was simply not good enough. His children’s grades had to be perfect. If not, he’d be in the principal’s office the next day, report card in hand, talking to the teachers.

No one ever dared to say No to my father. He was feared and respected like the rest of the Persian men of that era. Where he differed was that at a time when girls were supposed to marry early and get on with their new lives with their husbands and children, my father insisted that his girls should have higher education and master as many diverse skills as possible.

Poor Nahid was always in trouble. She was the first child and endured tremendous pressure; much was expected of her and she tried. But she was just never terribly interested in studying or schoolwork. She was a dreamer and an artist at heart. She simply had no use for Calculus or Algebra. When the teacher was giving a lecture, Nahid was busy drawing faces or flowers in her notebook. Her marks were deemed unsatisfactory by my father. He clearly did not understand her artistic temperament.

He eventually shifted his attention away from Nahid, focusing all his efforts on his second daughter. Zohreh was a better student, but a rebel. My father hoped she would become the doctor or engineer of the family, but she, too, had other plans and dreams. Zohreh was only interested in the concepts of design and space. She decorated her room to perfection and allowed no one in without her permission. She was stubborn and fearless. While the rest of us kids followed our father’s orders to the letter, she’d do the opposite. When we were all frightened, she would laugh. When we were all home studying, she’d be out with her friends.

She knew what she wanted to do and which college she wanted to attend. My father was under the impression that Zohreh had applied to certain universities as he had instructed. When it was time for acceptance letters to arrive and he discovered she’d only applied to the School of Interior Design, he was beside himself, a volcano on the verge of eruption.

How dare you disobey me? Didn’t I ask you to apply to medical school?

I don’t want to be an engineer or a doctor. I want to be an interior designer, she argued.

There is no prestige in that field. I told you where to apply and what to study.

Well, I don’t care. I want to do what I enjoy, she yelled back, running to her bedroom and locking the door behind her.

The rest of us, meanwhile, hid in the corner, doing our level best to avoid the conflict and our father’s fury.

This is not the end of it. You will not go to that stupid college.

True to form, Zohreh did, in fact, pursue her further education at that stupid college, where she was one of the best students in her class.

She was a nonconformist, against the institution of marriage. When a suitor called to ask her out, she typically answered with, I am not interested in getting married and likely never will be. If I feel like having children, I’ll adopt. There are tons of children out there who need homes. To which my mother would look at her daughter, her mouth open in seeming shock, her hands on her face in obvious disbelief. Why are you saying these things to people? They will start talking. Think of your reputation, your family’s reputation.

Forty years ago, in Iran, Zohreh’s ideas were radical; too much for anyone’s ears. But she had a strong sense of herself and wasn’t concerned with approval or pleasing others. Shrugging her shoulders, she’d say, Why should I get married and let a man decide for me what to do or not to do, when I can make my own money and decisions? In response, my mom shook her head, and, looking distressed, simply walked away.

Then there was me. Third in line, never a star student, but I worked and tried hard, even if I had to cheat in school a bit here and there to get a better grade. I wanted to avoid any unnecessary conflicts. I knew what was expected of me, and a solid academic performance was essential, topping the list of requirements. When I had free time, I was a mainstay at my mother’s side, helping with the housework or supermarket shopping. But, I was also the clown of the family and loved making everyone laugh. Full of energy, I was always busy doing something or getting involved in a project.

Nazee was the family’s star student, with her perfect grades. She was the answer to my father’s prayers, even though with three daughters already, he’d been wishing for a son. Born with long, black eyelashes, huge black eyes, and a head full of thick hair, my sister was a beautiful baby. As a child, she was quiet and gentle, in stark contrast to my loud and hyper personality. She was three-and-a-half years younger than I, but we shared everything: a room, friends, ideas, and secrets. We went everywhere together and were each other’s closest companion.

Two years later Fariborz arrived to complete our family; he was the love of all our lives. He was the most