He had nearly lost his mind from the shock. Though by now, Damir had slowly begun to recover.
Trying to distract himself, he focused on the streets outside. Beautiful scenery with European charm blended with Western modernity—it inspired him to dream again, to explore this new and unfamiliar world.
“This isn’t mine. Not my life. I’m just a guest. I’ll appear and disappear,” he told himself. A man who had never known luxury, who had fought for every small slice of life, simply couldn’t allow himself to believe in miracles. Anything but that. Miracles didn’t happen to him—not even obvious ones. He was convinced something would go wrong, and he’d be sent back where he came from. Meanwhile, the car rolled toward one of the elite neighborhoods—it was obvious by the roads and the view. One mansion replaced another, each with its own garden and pool. They stopped near one such house. The gates parted.
Another 50 meters through a landscaped park, and the car pulled up to the grand residence. Damir got out and looked up at the four-story building towering before him. The driver removed his suitcase from the trunk and gestured toward the door. As it opened, Damir tensed, expecting to see his biological parents. Instead, a middle-aged woman in uniform appeared—clearly the housekeeper—and he let out a small breath of relief. She greeted him politely and led him further inside. The luxury of the home struck him immediately. Even though he had prepared himself—dressing in brand-name clothes, grooming himself carefully—he now felt the invisible weight of the delivery backpack from his past. He felt completely out of place. All he wanted was to leave and vanish.
“Salam alaikum, son. How was your flight?” a man’s voice said in English with a slight accent.
Damir turned to see a tall, imposing man descending the staircase. He instantly recognized him—his father. The resemblance was undeniable. Like looking at himself, only older. Damir’s heart pounded in his chest.
“Wa alaikum assalam,” he answered with a shaky voice, and froze.
Mr. Saidi approached and extended his hand. Damir shook it, eyes locked on his father’s face. Then the man pulled him into a strong embrace. Damir didn’t speak Persian, but he understood his father was whispering a prayer of thanks. His voice trembled. Damir squeezed his eyes shut. A wave of overwhelming emotion swept over him, and he struggled to hold back the tears. But they broke through anyway.
A few minutes later, two women ran toward them. One was crying loudly; the other tried to calm her. The men turned. In a flash, Damir caught his mother in his arms. She didn’t even get the chance to hug him—she fainted. He had grown up a man who didn’t easily give in to sentiment. He could fight to the death, stare an enemy in the eye without flinching. He had endured cold, hunger, hardship—and never broken. But now, sitting on the floor, holding the woman he had just met for the first time in his 32 years, he cried like he was six again. His younger sister hugged him too. He stroked her shoulder, kissed her cheeks and hair. Meeting his real family shattered every doubt and fear inside him. He felt the overwhelming pull of blood—as if this had always been his true home. This was the air his lungs needed, the moments and faces his eyes longed to see, the scents his soul craved. Everything was here—among these people.
