I used to hide whenever I heard our garage door open. The door made a sound as loud as a bomb—a rumbling crash often accompanied by a shrill screech as the door finished rolling itself upward. This meant that Baba, my father, was home.
Baba never came home in the same mood. Some days he would greet me with a smile that spread all the way up to his blue eyes and faintly graying hair. He gave me an abrupt, whiskery kiss before setting down his briefcase, humming to himself as he flipped on the station that only played the English Premier League. Other days he stormed into the house and started screaming.
“Mina!” His voice boomed.
“Yes?” I stood in front of him, my stomach in knots.
“Why is this stain here?” His thick eyebrows arched in fury. “I have told you again and again not to spill things, you filthy child!”
“But,” I protested as my eyes brimmed with tears, “I didn’t do that.”
He moved his furious blue eyes about an inch away from my own and clenched his fists. We have the exact same eyes—a blue gray that turns to ice whenever we are angry or scared.
“Who else could have done this? Who else is stupid enough? Apologize right now.”
“I’m sorry, Baba,” I said, not to him, but to the floor.
“Stop crying. You are too old to be crying.”