I watch Raahima when she’s being read to. Not distracted. Not restless. Just still in that rare way children are when something inside them clicks into place. A book opens. A voice changes slightly. A pause hangs in the air before the next sentence. And Raahima leans in — not physically always, sometimes it’s just her eyes — as if she knows something important is happening, even if she can’t name it yet. Her mother, a PhD in Human Resources, reads to her the way serious people read to children. Slowly. Repeating a line if it feels right. Letting the rhythm do the work. There’s no rush to finish the book. That’s not the point. The point is the moment itself. Her aunt, Dr. Maryam, does the same. Another voice. Another cadence. Another way of holding a story in the air long enough for it to settle. Raahima doesn’t know what degrees are. She doesn’t know what research means. But she knows voices. She knows presence. She knows when someone is truly with her. And then there is Salar...
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