As my parents’ only child, I always listened for bits of grown-up news or gossip, especially when they spoke in hushed tones or in “code.” Without siblings to distract me away from the business of the adults, I was often privy to all sorts of dirt. But, whenever I asked a question about something I overheard, my mother shamed me back to childhood with comments like, “Little pitchers have big ears!” or even better, in Italian, “Fatti gli affari tuoi!”

I hated gym and those one-piece blue gym suits. They had the self-contained waistband, the baggy shorts, the snap front, and were a pain to climb into. They made even the most glamorous girls in phys ed look like little blue sausages. A chubby fifteen-year-old, I tried to stay out of that ridiculous blue get-up whenever possible.

Summers lingered, with pancakes for breakfast and sometimes for lunch, too. Mom peeled carrots and left them in a Pyrex bowl of water on the kitchen table. I’d grab one for a snack, running through the house and out to the backyard, where the fun happened.

How many Seventeen articles do I need to read to get it right? “The makeup should look natural, like it’s not there. The idea is to enhance, not pronounce.” That’s what the people in the article say.

“El Wacko is snorting coke in the bathroom,” Daniel shouted. He stormed into his parents’ room. I studied my godbrother, round eyes and mouth open, from my seat on the nightstand. My back pressed against rows and rows of vitamins, all promising weight loss, wishing to be anywhere but here.

Dr. Thompson was feeling my breasts. Sitting on the table in his exam room with my gown dropped to my waist, I was embarrassed to have him touch me. I was embarrassed just to be at the appointment. My body developed curves early. In seventh grade, when most girls had flat chests, I wore a C-cup bra and hid in the corner of the locker room to change before and after gym class. By fifteen, my 34D chest was a health concern.

I stared at the bead of blood. A perfect red pearl on my almost-shoulder.

“I’ll get something for that,” said the nurse. “Here, put some pressure on it.” She pressed a cotton ball against my skin, and I held it there with my pointer finger.

I finally flossed my teeth. It was the first time in ten days. I moved about my bathroom with excited anticipation of normal days to come, suddenly aware of the overflowing garbage pail and grime in the cracks of the backsplash. Blood pooled delicately between the enamel of my teeth, reminding me of yet another way I had failed.

I learned about menstruation from sea monkeys when I was eight or nine. Since then, I haven’t given my body much thought. Maybe that time in Sicily, when I flew off my bike and skinned my knee and elbow, leaving a scar. Or perhaps when my legs sprouted hair and everyone in the sixth grade shaved before my mom let me. But now that we’re trying to have a baby, it’s all I can think about.

Chapter 1: February 1972

The brown stain in my white, cotton underwear looks like a crime scene. But it has to be a mistake, a trick of the fluorescent lighting in the bathroom. I wash my hands raw and clunk back out into the dining hall, my rented ski boots slamming against the cement floor.

You’re startled when a girl from your homeroom hugs you from behind. She wears more mature perfume than you’re allowed to buy, and you worry her makeup might rub off on the back of your black shirt. Her scent is sweet and gag-inducing in the narrow, yellow school hallway. As you both continue walking in this odd double-step, she pulls you slightly backwards toward the nurse’s office.

My parents raised my brother, Mark, and me in Raleigh, North Carolina, an airplane flight from any relatives. My mother’s sister lived in Oakland, and her brother lived in Los Angeles. We took one family vacation to each during my childhood, because saving money for the future was more important than knowing our cousins.

I’d waited an eternity, but I’m finally holding my brand-new Deutsch Reisepass. It’s stiff and unyielding, unlike my mother’s and grandparents’, which are worn, faded, and pliable. If I handle those old passports too roughly, the prominent swastika and red J on the cover may turn to dust in my hands. From dust to dust.

When I returned to Tehran for the first time, twenty years after my family’s escape from the Islamic Theocracy, I was in love. I can’t write an exhaustive list of what I was in love with, because I was in love with everything. I was in love with the taxi drivers. The surly ones. The quiet ones. The inquisitive.

A few months after moving to the U.S. from India, on a weekly trip to the San Jose Flea Market, I walked into a store selling art reprints and found an artist whose work would take me by the hand and show me around our new home.

I pulled the glass door toward me and walked into the Cord Camera store. The Man sat across from the entrance, on the other side of a glass display filled with shelves of Minolta and Canon SLR cameras. He read the newspaper and his pasty, distended arms looked like alabaster bookends holding the news captive.

Most notifications earned a disinterested glance from me, and I ended up swiping them away, too lazy to change settings. But there was one type of notification that got my full attention every time: an alert from Reddit reminding me that I had a new message. Not a short and snappy message like the “What’s up?” casually sent by my friends—rather, it was almost always a long, carefully thought-out letter amounting to at least a thousand words.

I don't think I knew it at the time, but I was desperate for love when she came into my life. I had been with my husband for two years and the marriage was dying. We didn't like or trust each other, and we weren't happy. There was no intimacy in the relationship.

I was pulling a pizza out of the oven when I nicked the heating element with my left ring finger. Now where a ring might be, I have a half-centimeter stripe, symmetrical enough to suggest a wedding band, a reminder of those I've worn before. It's red—the color of stop, of angry, of hurt—evoking both my marriages: the good one that reached "until death do us part," far too soon, and the bad one that made me feel diminished.

I live in the midst of Marias, from the maternal to the eternal. My nonna, Maria Grazia, with whom I spent much of my childhood, lost three children before she had my uncle and my mom, Maria Gaetana. My days are bookended with calls to my mom: Seven in the morning, post coffee and yoga, and seven in the evening, as my day slows.