stepped into my bedroom.
“You are a terrible child!” she said.
I shivered. I was expecting her to slap me, but instead, she turned around and walked away. “I’m leaving. I’m tired. I hate this life. I don’t want to ever see you again!”
My stomach hurt. She couldn’t possibly leave, or could she? She sounded serious. What would I do without a mother? I ran after her and grabbed her skirt. She didn’t stop.
“Please don’t leave! I’m sorry!” I begged, “I’ll go back on the balcony, and I’ll stay there without causing trouble. I promise.”
Ignoring me, she walked to the kitchen, grabbed her purse, and walked toward the stairs. Panicked, I started crying, but she didn’t stop. I grasped one of her legs, but she continued down the stairs, dragging me along. The stairs were hard and cold against my skin. I begged her to stay. She finally stopped at the door.
“If you want me to stay, go in your room, stay there, and don’t make a sound.”
I stared at her.
“Now!” she screamed, and I ran to my room.
For awhile after that, every time my mother stepped out of the house to go to the store or to run an errand, I sat by the window and shook with fear. What if she never returned?
I decided to stay out of my mother’s way, and the best way to achieve this was to stay in my room as long as possible. Every day, as soon as I arrived home from school, I tiptoed to the kitchen to see if my mother was there. If she wasn’t, I fixed myself a bologna sandwich, and if she was, I said a quick hello and then went to my room and waited for her to leave the kitchen. After eating, I stayed in my room, did my homework, and read the books I had borrowed from my school library. Most of these books were translations: Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, The Little Mermaid, The Snow Queen, The Steadfast Tin Soldier, Cinderella, The Sleeping Beauty, Hansel and Gretel, and Rapunzel. My school library was small, and soon I had read all its books not only once, but three or four times. A couple of times every night, my mother opened the door of my bedroom to see what I was doing and smiled when she found me reading. In a way, books had saved us both.
One day, I gathered all my courage and asked my mother if she would buy me books, and she said she could buy me only one book a month because books were expensive and we couldn’t spend all our money on them. But one book a month wasn’t enough. A few days later, when my mother and I were walking home after visiting her father, I noticed a small bookstore. The sign read: Secondhand Books. I knew “secondhand” meant cheap, but I didn’t dare ask my mother to check it out.
One week later, when my mother told me it was time for us to visit my grandfather, I told her I wasn’t feeling well, and she agreed to let me stay home. My father was at work. Not too long after Grandma’s death, he had closed down his dance studio and had found a job at a division of the Ministry of Arts and Culture, working with folklore dance groups. He liked his new job and sometimes traveled to different countries with the dancers, young men and women who represented Iran at different international events. As soon as my mother left the house, I ran to my parents’ bedroom and took my mother’s spare house keys from the drawer of her dresser. I had saved all my chocolate-milk money for a week and hoped it would be enough for a book.
I ran to the secondhand bookstore. All day, the late-spring sun had shone on the black asphalt, creating quivering waves of heat, which rose into the air and pushed against me. When I arrived at the bookstore, drops of sweat were dripping down my forehead and into my eyes, making them burn. I wiped my face with my T-shirt, pushed open the glass door of the store, and stepped in. Once my eyes adjusted to the low level of light, I couldn’t believe what I saw. All around me, piles of books were stacked on bookshelves up to the ceiling, leaving only narrow tunnels
“You are a terrible child!” she said.
I shivered. I was expecting her to slap me, but instead, she turned around and walked away. “I’m leaving. I’m tired. I hate this life. I don’t want to ever see you again!”
My stomach hurt. She couldn’t possibly leave, or could she? She sounded serious. What would I do without a mother? I ran after her and grabbed her skirt. She didn’t stop.
“Please don’t leave! I’m sorry!” I begged, “I’ll go back on the balcony, and I’ll stay there without causing trouble. I promise.”
Ignoring me, she walked to the kitchen, grabbed her purse, and walked toward the stairs. Panicked, I started crying, but she didn’t stop. I grasped one of her legs, but she continued down the stairs, dragging me along. The stairs were hard and cold against my skin. I begged her to stay. She finally stopped at the door.
“If you want me to stay, go in your room, stay there, and don’t make a sound.”
I stared at her.
“Now!” she screamed, and I ran to my room.
For awhile after that, every time my mother stepped out of the house to go to the store or to run an errand, I sat by the window and shook with fear. What if she never returned?
I decided to stay out of my mother’s way, and the best way to achieve this was to stay in my room as long as possible. Every day, as soon as I arrived home from school, I tiptoed to the kitchen to see if my mother was there. If she wasn’t, I fixed myself a bologna sandwich, and if she was, I said a quick hello and then went to my room and waited for her to leave the kitchen. After eating, I stayed in my room, did my homework, and read the books I had borrowed from my school library. Most of these books were translations: Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland, The Little Mermaid, The Snow Queen, The Steadfast Tin Soldier, Cinderella, The Sleeping Beauty, Hansel and Gretel, and Rapunzel. My school library was small, and soon I had read all its books not only once, but three or four times. A couple of times every night, my mother opened the door of my bedroom to see what I was doing and smiled when she found me reading. In a way, books had saved us both.
One day, I gathered all my courage and asked my mother if she would buy me books, and she said she could buy me only one book a month because books were expensive and we couldn’t spend all our money on them. But one book a month wasn’t enough. A few days later, when my mother and I were walking home after visiting her father, I noticed a small bookstore. The sign read: Secondhand Books. I knew “secondhand” meant cheap, but I didn’t dare ask my mother to check it out.
One week later, when my mother told me it was time for us to visit my grandfather, I told her I wasn’t feeling well, and she agreed to let me stay home. My father was at work. Not too long after Grandma’s death, he had closed down his dance studio and had found a job at a division of the Ministry of Arts and Culture, working with folklore dance groups. He liked his new job and sometimes traveled to different countries with the dancers, young men and women who represented Iran at different international events. As soon as my mother left the house, I ran to my parents’ bedroom and took my mother’s spare house keys from the drawer of her dresser. I had saved all my chocolate-milk money for a week and hoped it would be enough for a book.
I ran to the secondhand bookstore. All day, the late-spring sun had shone on the black asphalt, creating quivering waves of heat, which rose into the air and pushed against me. When I arrived at the bookstore, drops of sweat were dripping down my forehead and into my eyes, making them burn. I wiped my face with my T-shirt, pushed open the glass door of the store, and stepped in. Once my eyes adjusted to the low level of light, I couldn’t believe what I saw. All around me, piles of books were stacked on bookshelves up to the ceiling, leaving only narrow tunnels
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