Before I went to school, my father subscribed to the Kayhan newspaper and faithfully brought it home each morning from Bastak, where he taught at the high school. We also had a subscription to Kayhan Bacheha, a weekly magazine for children. In first grade, I was thrilled: not only could I gaze at the colorful photographs, but the letters themselves were slowly starting to make sense. By mid-year I was reading the stories in Kayhan Bacheha on my own, and I fell in love with the joy of words.
Over the next three or four years, I amassed nearly two hundred issues—stacks of adventures, science tidbits, and fairy tales lining my bedroom floor. Then one day, my father announced that the Kayhan Institute’s content had become impossible to follow, so he cancelled our subscription and replaced it with a different newspaper. And just like that, Kayhan Bacheha vanished from our home.
By the end of third grade, my cousin Fatemeh—whom the family had always hoped I’d look up to—had just finished first grade and was learning to read, too. I decided to share the pleasure I’d found in those magazines. Although I treasured my collection, I carefully selected a dozen issues and presented them to her with pride.
The next afternoon, I went to my aunt’s house, eager to hear her thoughts. I imagined us sitting together, turning pages and discussing each story’s heroes and villains. But as soon as I stepped inside, Fatemeh’s older sister dismissed me brusquely: “Thanks for the magazines, but the kids here just throw them on the floor, and we can’t be bothered to pick them up. Take them back.”
My aunt, lounging on the divan with her water-pipe, gave a knowing nod. It wasn’t her decision; she was just following orders from higher up. Crestfallen, I tucked the magazines under my arm and walked home.
I felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment: relief that the magazines were mine once more, disappointment that no one else could appreciate them as I did. As I trudged the hundred-meter walk back, I came to a sudden realization: maybe we simply weren’t the right fit.
That night I dreamed of a new betrothed. She had the glossy black hair of my cousin, but her face was completely different—sharper, more mysterious. I felt no pang of guilt; instead, I welcomed this fresh promise with an open heart, moving on to a tomorrow where I could treasure my stories—and myself—just the way I wanted.
P.S.: Names changed for anonymity.