My mother was a cold woman. She was obviously traumatised, and her whole life was this routine that she kept doing. She so obviously hated her life, and I often wonder me, but didn’t dare say anything. Why? Because our society was so, so deeply patriarchal. My hometown even more so. I didn’t even know divorce was normal among Iranians until two of my aunts had divorces. But not my mother. Probably especially because she was also religious.
Then of course the accident happened and she lost everything. We all did. That was the one incident that left everything incomplete.
Now I often wonder, what would have happened without the accident? Would my parents have gotten divorced? Would their relationship have improved? Would it have stayed the same, with the mild coldness running ever deeper into my veins?
The problem is, I’ll never know. It’s like an unfinished book. And I have to be okay with leaving it unfinished. I have to stop obsessing over it.