Cursing under his breath, he brought the phone up to his ear.
“Hi, Mom.”
There was a pause on the line, and Dan knew it was for dramatic effect.
“Daniyal?” his mom said. “You’re alive, habibi?” While the endearment was a nice touch, there was no masking the sharpness in her words.
Dan let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “For the most part,” he said.
“And your phone? It works?”
“It seems to.”
She clucked her tongue. “Then I must need to take my phone in for a repair.”
Dan decided to humor her. “Why’s that?”
“Because, Daniyal, I call, and I call, and I call some more. I leave messages. I even text you, and rarely get a response. My phone must be the problem.”
“Did you need something, Mom?” he asked brusquely. He was done with this shit. Wasn’t it enough that he was acting as her little guilt-ridden puppet? Did he have to play the games too?
“I actually do. Are you free this week? For lunch, perhaps? I need to talk to you. I can come to the city.”
“Talk about what?” Dan said, a dull sense of dread sliding through him.
“About the practice. Nothing bad, don’t worry.”
Dan choked back a bitter laugh. Of course it was about the practice. It was always about the practice.
“Are you all right, Daniyal?”
Dan was silent, trying to swallow past the emotions clogging his throat. He wasn’t okay. He felt alone. He felt stuck. He felt stupid. He felt heartbroken.
“Talk to me.”
Dan sighed. He let all the air out of his chest as though he could rid his cells of the pain they carried.
“Can I come see you?” Dan said suddenly without thinking. “Tonight?” he added. He didn’t know where the impulse came from, but suddenly, he needed nothing more than to see her. To look for the mom she’d once been before grief had morphed her into this different person. Maybe if he hugged his mom, everything would be okay.
Farrah was silent for a few moments before her voice cut through the line, her words tinged with heavy emotion. “Of course, hobi, I’ll see you soon.”
Not allowing himself time to think better of the idea, Dan jogged to Thirtieth Street Station, buying a ticket for the next train to Haverford. He regretted his decision every second of the forty-five-minute ride, yet his feet still carried him off the train and the few blocks to his childhood home.
Standing outside the door, he hesitated. He wasn’t sure why he was there. He didn’t want to hear whatever she had to say about the practice. He didn’t want her to ask about school. He didn’t want to see his father’s degrees and awards littering every wall of their house.
Despite all those things, he knocked on the door.
Farrah opened it almost immediately, as though she’d been sitting on the staircase off the entryway, waiting for him.
Dan stepped in and stripped off his coat, avoiding looking at her. It felt painful to look at her and miss the person she used to be to him.
When he finally steeled his nerves and met her gaze, she was staring at him like it was the first time she’d seen him in over a year.
She looked aged, sadness and grief scoring lines across her face. But the softness in her eyes, the sense of knowing that she really saw him, made it feel like his mom was back. She was back, and she’d make things okay in the way only moms seemed able to do.
Farrah reached out a hand, gently tracing the dark circles beneath Dan’s eyes with her thumb. “I’m glad you’re here. Are you tired? You look tired.”
All Dan could do was nod. He was exhausted. From the pressure to save her, from pretending to be someone he wasn’t. It all culminated in a bone-deep tiredness that threatened to lay him out on the floor.
“You aren’t happy.” It wasn’t a question.
The lump in Dan’s throat swelled. He wanted to admit it, tell her how none of this made sense for him, but the guilt of failing her, leaving her stranded, clawed at his chest. He loved her too much to let her down.
Minutes stretched as she stared at him, countless emotions flickering behind her eyes. Finally, she nodded, reaching out with strong, sure arms and pulling him into a hug.
That small gesture almost fractured him into a hundred pieces. The lavender scent of her skin, the strength of her arms around him, the softness of the comforting circles she drew on his back—all felt like coming home for the first time in years.
Eventually she pulled away, moving them to the kitchen and motioning for him to sit, sliding a plate of maamoul in front of him while she prepared tea.