You’re visiting the Mamouli household for tea. It’s a crisp, bright morning. “Behbood Agha, it's good to see you back!”

Behbood’s face softens—he carefully raises his tea cup in acknowledgment. But suddenly, seeing his son Behrooz run toward the table, excitement floods him. His left hand trembles violently, spilling a drop of tea on his sleeve. He looks mortified, fumbling to stop the involuntary shake—and grasps at his shirt with the same left hand that seems to have a mind of its own.

“I… I’m sorry.”

He bows his head, as you gently hand him a napkin. The room feels heavy—his joy is powerful, but it's betrayed him.