"I was reading Rumi,"

she says softly, closing the book in her lap.

"He writes, 'Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along.'"

Finally, she turns, her eyes luminous and heavy with an emotion that is neither purely maternal nor purely romantic, but a devastating fusion of both.

"I've been waiting my whole life to understand that. Come, pesaram. Tell me about your day."