Her phone buzzed, snapping Negar out of her trance. She looked at the screen—it was a message from Farhad. She opened it:
“Dear Negar, I’ve made an appointment for you with Dr. Mohiri tomorrow at 10 AM. I’ll send you the clinic address. He’s a good person, trust him. I know he can help.”
Negar read the message several times. Dr. Mohiri. A psychologist. After twenty-three years away from her homeland, her first official destination was a psychologist’s office. It was bitter, but real.
Her finger paused on the screen, then she typed: “Thanks Farhad. I’ll go tomorrow.”
After sending the message, she put her phone aside. She looked at the clinic address—Valiasr Street, near the park. Tomorrow she would have to leave this apartment, talk to someone, speak about emptiness, about void, about that strange feeling.
She didn’t know how to start. “I have everything but I have nothing?” “Doctor, I’ve been drowning for years?” “Help me, I can’t do it on my own?”
The tea had gone cold. Negar looked at the cup, at the steam that was no longer there. Everything grew cold if no one was there to warm it.
She stood up and took the cup to the kitchen. As she came back, her eyes fell on her mother’s photograph on the windowsill. She stopped and looked at it. Her mother was smiling in the picture, unaware of all the years that were to come.
She whispered: “Tomorrow… maybe tomorrow I can…”
She didn’t know what. Maybe she could return, maybe she could forgive, maybe she could find herself.
She went into the bedroom and lay down. She closed her eyes. Tomorrow was another day. Maybe a better day.
