“I said forget it, Shadi. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I was stupid to even ask you to care.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means?” She spun back without warning. “It means you don’t care. It means you don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself.”

I stepped back like I’d been struck.

“That’s not true,” I said, but I was stunned, which made me sound uncertain, which only proved her point.

She laughed, but the sound was hollow, angry. “You don’t care about anything. Not about us, not about Baba. You never talk to Maman, you never ask me anything about my life.”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to ask—I didn’t even know you wanted to talk to me—”

Her eyes went wide. “Shadi, you’re my sister. Who else am I supposed to talk to?”

I took a step forward and she drew suddenly back, her face flushing.

“Don’t you dare try to hug me. Don’t you dare try to patronize me.”

“I’m not trying to patronize you, I just—”

“You have no idea how hard it’s been for me this last year,” she said, her eyes shining with sudden emotion. “You have no idea, Shadi.” She shook her head, looked around. “Who do you think keeps the house running these days? Who do you think makes sure we have food in the fridge? Who do you think takes out the trash, cleans the kitchen, brings in the mail, sorts the bills, makes sure Maman has gas in her car, cashes her checks, makes sure Baba’s insurance is going through?”

“Shayda—”

“Me, Shadi.” She stabbed a finger at her chest. “It’s me. And you don’t lift a finger to help. You don’t even pretend to give a shit. You have no idea what I’ve been going through or how much I have to do every day or even this”—she waved her hands around—“this, today, with Hassan.” She laughed, suddenly, sounded hysterical. “You don’t even know what’s happening, do you? You’ve never asked me a single question about him. You know literally nothing about my life, and you couldn’t care less.”

“Of course I care. Shayda, I want to know—please, listen to me—”

“No—I’m sick of how selfish you’ve been. I’m sick and tired of it. You’re out doing God-knows-what with Ali, of all people, who treats the rest of us like shit, who hasn’t even talked to us in like a year—and you never, ever want to know how Baba is doing. You never visit him at the hospital. You don’t even care about him. You want him to die. Don’t you? Don’t you?”

She was just screaming at me now, her painted lips curving around the awful sounds. I’d frozen in place, my compassion turning to dust as I imagined my mother sitting downstairs, pretending not to hear some distorted version of this in front of her guest. I was picturing her mortification, her horror.

“Please,” I said quietly. “Please stop shouting.”

She would not.

“You want our family to fall apart. You want our parents to get a divorce. After everything we’ve been through—after everything, you just want it all to get worse. Why? What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Shayda,” I said desperately. “There are people downstairs. They can hear you. Maman will hear you.”

“So you’re not even going to answer my questions?” She shook her head, disgusted, and with that movement the fight left her body. She looked bereft in the aftermath. Bereft and cruel. “You’re not going to answer my questions, but you’re going to stand there and pretend to be righteous, pretend to be better than me, than all the rest of us?”

“Shayda. Stop.”

“You didn’t even cry at his funeral,” she said, and I heard her breath hitch. “Sometimes I think you don’t even care that he’s dead.”

I was suddenly breathing so hard I thought my chest would explode. I stared at the carpet under my feet, tried desperately to keep my anger in check. This time, I failed.

“Get out.”

“What?” She startled.

“Get out. Get out of my room. Go get married. Good luck.”

“I’m not getting married,” she said, still confused. “I’m just—”

I looked up, locked eyes with her. She visibly flinched.

“You don’t know anything about me, Shayda. You don’t know anything at all.” I walked past her, yanked open the door. “Now leave.”

She wouldn’t.

So I did.

I pulled on a pair of jeans and an old hoodie, tugged a wool beanie over my wet hair. Shayda was telling me that I’d lost my mind, that I’d officially gone insane, that I couldn’t go downstairs looking like that without embarrassing her, and that I couldn’t leave without saying hello to Hassan’s mom or else disrespect their entire family, and that this—this—was only further proof that I didn’t care about anyone but myself, that I was a monster, a monster of a human being who didn’t care about anyone, didn’t care about anyone—

These were the words she shouted at me as I barreled down the stairs.

My mother stood erect, waiting for me as I entered the living room, the look on her face violent enough to commit a double homicide.

I’d missed that look.

“I’m sorry,” I said breathlessly, and forced a smile.

I did my best to make quick work of the extremely polite and overly formal hellos and apologies necessary, my stilted, accented Farsi making the scene even more ridiculous. I thanked the woman I assumed was Hassan’s mom for honoring our home with her presence, for being gracious enough to overlook my appearance, and to please, please sit down and make herself comfortable. Her lips kept twitching as I talked, as she took me in, staring at me as though she were trying hard not to laugh.

My mother sighed.

But when I started putting on my shoes, she sharpened.

“Koja dari miri?” she said. Where are you going?

I knew it was only out of courtesy for her guest that she didn’t rip open my spleen right there on the living room floor, and it filled me with no small amount of joy to see her like this, something like herself. I didn’t mind at all that she would no doubt kill me later.

“I forgot my phone at Zahra’s house,” I said quickly, affecting nonchalance. Insouciance. Indifference. I hated Shayda. “I need to run back and grab it.”

“Alaan?” Right now?

My mother peered out the window, at the increasing darkness. Zahra’s house wasn’t far from here, only about four streets down. For a few months Zahra’s proximity to our new house had been the only fringe benefit in moving. Three months ago, when I’d been sent to the nurse’s office after passing out in the middle of second period, I couldn’t get ahold of anyone. Instead, I called Zahra’s mom, who sent her husband to pick me up. He left work, bought me five different kinds of medicine I didn’t need, and let me sleep in Zahra’s bed. I was so astonished by their kindness I wrote them a letter right there in Zahra’s bedroom, at her desk, using her paper and pen. It was a long letter, the contents of which were an exaggeration of emotion, embarrassing in their sincerity. I’d left the letter in their mailbox. Walked home. Said nothing to my own family about my day.