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Chapter 1
Azadeh—Age 29
Present Day
“There will be many challenges in life. Some will propel you forward, while others will kick you with such force that you will believe you’ll never recover from them. But if you remember one thing, you will never falter. Family is everything, Joonam. Never forget that.”
My mother’s words are a mantra playing on an endless loop in my mind.
Family is everything.
All I've done for the last six years is run from my family. Instead of being at home with the people I love, I've been galivanting all over the globe, helping strangers.
I bang the steering wheel with my open palm, needing to break something or myself. The grief and regret simmering inside me are at boiling point.
The road in front of me becomes a blur as thoughts of my dead mother ravage my mind, taking over like a virus that leaves nothing behind. An ironic smile forms on my lips as I ponder her words about feminine energy.
Never forget that it was women who led the Persian Immortals.
My mother was a juxtaposition. A strong, independent woman raised in the brutal bonds of religious patriarchy. She had a thirst for knowledge and a desire to demolish the chains that held her in place. From a young age, she read us stories about strong Persian women: Grand Admiral Artemisia, Irdabama, and Atrunis, amongst others.
Don’t let a man dictate your worth or your capabilities.
My mother sang the virtues of independence and forging your own path, but she was also concerned about the opinions of neighbors who didn’t know or care about her. That part of her essence was based on the bullshit purity culture that the government of Iran doused her with like a baptism. Though her struggles with the patriarchy were something she could never sever, my mother ensured that all three of her children could.
Nasrin Baran was a single mother who escaped persecution after witnessing her thirteen-year-old daughter receive seventy-two lashes following the public execution of her husband. Those two traumatic events forced her to push past and strive daily to shatter the ties to a country she both loved and despised in the same breath. Those encounters with religious patriarchal systems meant my mother constantly checked her gender biases and allowed her children to be who they wanted to be rather than the contrived “ideals” of corrupt men.
My mother was a pioneer. Her struggle and sacrifice gifted me with my freedom. For that, I will forever be grateful.
At thirty-eight, Nasrin packed up her three children—the youngest was nine—and walked away from the only home she’d ever known in the dead of night. Forced to deal with shady men and potential slaughter while she prayed to a god she believed might have abandoned her for the deliverance of her family.
My mother wasn’t a warrior, nor was she a woman of means or luxury. Nasrin Baran lived in a desperate situation that forced her to be a survivor. Because of her struggle, she ensured her son and two daughters became no one’s victim.
Memories of my mother don’t plague me like they used to. Over the years, I’ve learned to compartmentalize the different facets of her identity.
A frightened newcomer who didn’t want to offend anyone by taking up space.
The Protector who loved her children with an unrivaled ferociousness.
A mature student who grappled with self-imposed shame rather than prideful perseverance when she had to get recertified after being at the top of her field as a nurse in Iran.
The perfectionist in her also demanded it from her children.
I didn’t bring you to America so you could turn into garbage. A B-plus is not what my sacrifices were for.
She was an immigrant who was grateful for America but never gave up on the idea of seeing home.
One day, Iran will be better. We will show the world what it means to be the descendants of Cyrus the Great. Our people are merciful and strong. We’ve survived it all, and this, too, shall become a footnote in our long history. When we go home, Azadeh. I’ll show you the Aladaglar Mountains.
She’d pull me to the computer, and we would wait patiently for images of the rainbow mountains to pop up on the screen. But no matter what part of herself she showed to the world, my mother continuously proved through her actions that a woman was the captain of her destiny—she simply needed to be brave enough to grasp it.
She never got to go home. Nasrin Baran died in an American hospital, leaving three young adult children to pave a path for themselves.
I blink back tears as the manor house comes into view. I haven’t seen my men for three months. I’ve missed them. But one of them has betrayed me. And I intend to have my vengeance.
Chapter 2
Ezekiel—Age 15
