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Kaveh had always imagined the night before his wedding as something loud.
He had pictured music spilling from every room, friends staying far too late, glasses clinking together, teasing remarks from everyone who had ever watched him and Alhaitham orbit each other for years before finally surrendering to gravity.
Instead, the house was quiet.
The sun had long since slipped beneath the horizon, leaving the windows washed in deep indigo. A kettle sat between them on the low table, breathing little curls of steam into the air.
Kaveh cradled his cup between both hands.
Across from him, his mother looked content in a way he had not seen in years. There were more silver strands woven through Faranak’s hair now, and fine lines around her eyes, but tonight they only made her smile seem warmer.
Alhaitham sat beside Kaveh on the divan, one leg crossed over the other, posture as infuriatingly composed as ever.
“You’ve been staring at that tea for ten minutes,” he observed.
“I’m reflecting.”
“You’re panicking.”
“I am not panicking.”
“You rearranged the sugar cubes into a symmetrical pattern.”
Kaveh glanced down.
He had.
“That’s just…” He gestured vaguely. “Artistic instinct.”
“It resembles a defensive formation.”
“It does not!”
Faranak laughed softly into her cup.
“You should have seen him when he was little,” she said. “Before every school festival, he would ask me at least twelve times if his clothes looked alright.”
“Twelve is exaggerated.”
“Fourteen, perhaps.”
Kaveh groaned.
“Mother.”
“He also cried because one sleeve was wrinkled.”
“I was six!”
Alhaitham looked thoughtful.
“So some habits never changed.”
Kaveh elbowed him hard enough to earn the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
For a while, they simply sat together.
No wedding preparations.
No guests.
No obligations.
Just tea.
Just family.
Kaveh watched his mother refill their cups and felt something strange settle in his chest.
Peace.
Tomorrow he would stand beneath flowers and lanterns and exchange vows with the man who had somehow become home.
Tomorrow everyone would see it.
But tonight belonged only to the three of them.
Faranak set the teapot down.
Then she stood and went to grab something out of bag, which she had left in the hall.
“I almost forgot,” she said quietly.
She returned carrying a small envelope.
Its paper had yellowed with age.
A dark wax seal sat unbroken at the center.
Kaveh frowned.
“What’s this?”
For a moment, Faranak only looked at it.
Then she placed it carefully into his hands.
“I think,” she said, voice softer now, “you’re old enough to receive it.”
Kaveh turned it over.
There was no name written on the front.
Only handwriting he didn’t recognize.
Or perhaps…
Perhaps he recognized it in the way one recognizes a melody heard in childhood.
A memory without shape.
His stomach tightened.
“Mother?”
She folded her hands together.
“Your father wrote it.”
Silence.
Even Alhaitham straightened slightly.
Kaveh stared.
“But…”
“He wrote it a few weeks before…” She paused, collecting herself. “Before the accident.”
“I didn’t know…”
“I couldn’t bear to give it to you when you were younger.” Faranak smiled sadly. “Every year I thought, perhaps now.”
“When you turned ten.”
“When you graduated.”
“When you moved out.”
“But every time I looked at it, you still seemed too small.”
She reached over, brushing her thumb against his knuckles.
“And now tomorrow you’re getting married.”
“So I think he would want you to have it tonight.”
Kaveh’s hands trembled.
The wax seal cracked beneath his thumb.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Carefully preserved.
The ink had faded slightly.
He unfolded it.
And read.
My dear Kaveh,
Right now, you are six years old.
You are asleep in the next room while I write this.
You insisted on staying awake because you wanted to help me repair a shelf, but after ten minutes you curled up on the floor and declared that supervising was more important.
You still hold my hand whenever we cross the street.
You still ask if birds become tired from flying.
You still believe I can fix everything.
You are so small.
Small enough that I can still lift you onto my shoulders.
Small enough that your shoes fit in one hand.
Small enough that when you laugh, it feels as though the entire house brightens.
I do not know what kind of person you will become.
I do not know what your voice will sound like when you are grown.
I do not know if you will be tall.
I do not know what dreams you will chase.
I do not know if you will still love drawing little houses on every scrap of paper you find.
I do know that you will grow.
Children always do, no matter how desperately their parents wish they could hold them in one moment forever.
Perhaps when you read this, I will be sitting beside you, embarrassed that I wrote something so sentimental.
Or perhaps I won’t be.
If I am not, then there are things I want you to know.
There will be days when you think you have failed.
Days when you believe you have disappointed people.
Days when you carry burdens that were never yours to carry.
Please remember that being kind does not mean being responsible for every sadness in the world.
Please remember that making mistakes does not make you unworthy of love.
And please remember that you were loved long before you accomplished anything.
You were loved simply because you existed.
I hope I get to watch you grow taller than me.
I hope I get to hear about your first great project and pretend to understand every detail.
I hope I get to embarrass you in front of your friends.
I hope I get to meet the person who makes your eyes shine.
I wonder who they are.
Will they be patient with your endless talking?
Will they remind you to eat when you’re busy?
Will they look at you and see the wonderful person your mother and I already know you are?
If they do, then I think I will like them very much.
And if one day you stand before them dressed for your wedding, nervous and smiling and pretending you are not about to cry…
Know that I would have been crying enough for both of us.
I would have adjusted your collar.
I would have told everyone how handsome you looked.
I would have bragged shamelessly about you.
I would have thanked the stars for allowing me to see that day.
If I cannot be there, then imagine me anyway.
Imagine me standing somewhere nearby.
Looking at the little boy who used to fall asleep on the floor while supervising repairs.
Looking at the man he became.
And feeling proud beyond words.
Grow well, my son.
Live fully.
Love deeply.
And when tomorrow arrives, smile.
You have already given me more happiness than six years should have contained.
With all my love, always,
Baba
The words blurred.
Kaveh blinked hard.
Then again.
But tears spilled over anyway.
He covered his mouth with one hand.
A sound escaped him.
Small.
Broken.
“He…” His voice cracked. “He thought he’d see me grow up.”
Faranak moved beside him immediately, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
“I know.”
“He wrote this thinking he’d meet whoever I’d marry.”
“I know.”
Kaveh laughed weakly through tears.
“He was wondering if they’d tolerate me talking too much.”
Alhaitham reached over and gently took the letter before it slipped from Kaveh’s shaking hands.
His gaze lingered on one line.
Will they remind you to eat when you’re busy?
A quiet breath escaped him.
“He seems perceptive.”
Kaveh looked up.
Alhaitham’s expression was unreadable at first.
Then, carefully, he said,
“I think he would have liked me.”
Kaveh made another watery sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
“You’re unbelievably arrogant.”
“I’m simply agreeing with the assessment of a man who appears to have had excellent judgment.”
Kaveh wiped at his eyes furiously.
“Stop making jokes.”
“You started crying harder.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No.”
Kaveh leaned against him.
“I really don’t.”
Alhaitham rested his head lightly against Kaveh’s temple.
And for a moment, it felt as though the room held four people instead of three.
A mother watching her son become a husband.
A man holding the person he loved.
A son clutching a letter written twenty years too early.
And somewhere, beyond memory and grief and time itself, a father seeing that the small boy with shoes that fit in one hand had indeed grown well.
And tomorrow, when Kaveh walked toward the altar, he would carry that letter tucked safely inside his jacket pocket.
Not because it would make the absence hurt less.
But because, at last, he knew he was not walking there alone.