Dear Hassan Case

Hassan jan,

A couple more days to your birthday. Twenty-one years old. I don’t have a gift for you this year; what I have is far from it, in fact. But I owe this to you, Hassan, and this debt has been overdue for nearly twenty-one years.

Ali was infertile. I am your biological father.

When Sofia died giving birth to Amir, she tore out a part of me and took it with her. For months I searched for something to fill the void with, something that would allow me to love again, but I was unhinged by grief. And in a moment of weakness, I betrayed Sofia and Ali with my unfaithfulness, both you and Amir with my silence, and myself for going against everything that I stood for. 9 months later, I watched with hopeful but apprehensive eyes as you were brought into this world. I watched as you flashed your brilliant smile at a world that did not deserve someone like you. And when I looked into your green eyes, I saw the part of me that was noble and virtuous, the part that had become sullied by my betrayal. I knew that I loved you, though this love was something just out of reach that I could not fully embrace.

I think about the day you left us once in a while. I still don’t fully understand why you and Ali had to leave, and perhaps I never will. I did not believe for a second that you stole the watch; I only asked you if you did because Amir wanted me to punish you for some reason, and I wanted to make it clear that I would do no such thing. Never could I have anticipated that it would go spiraling out of my control from there… Seeing you leave had brought back a sensation that I’d lost touch with- pure, paralyzing fear. The first time I’d felt fear like that was when Ali was diagnosed with polio; I couldn’t sleep for days, I was so afraid of losing him. I would give anything to see you both again, but it was fear that the reason for both of you leaving was that Ali had enough of living a lie that had kept me from seeing you. I didn’t want to hurt him anymore. He had played my games for far too long. And now that I am bed-ridden, it is useless to even hope to see you both.

I live in America now, with Amir. 6 years away from Afghanistan have made me see true courage in a different light. As I look back on the times when I stood up for what I thought was right, I find that they mean nothing to me, for I have failed the ultimate test of bravery: to accept and embrace the fact that you are my son. I wanted to love you openly, I really did, but my pride could not concede. My strength and bravery was all I was to people, and if I had admitted to my infidelity, everything that I’d tried so hard to build would’ve come crashing down. I had the strength to uproot trees and wrestle bears, but when it came to transgressing social boundaries, my strength failed me. Real courage is to be able to live life on your own terms,