“It wasn’t you place to tell him,” Baran yells into her phone, finally letting out the fury she’s felt at her ex-husband since their six-year-old son had casually mentioned that Baba taught him what to do if he ever saw someone having a seizure.

“I didn’t tell him about you,” Ahmad says calmly as Baran paces back and forth in her living room. “I told him what a seizure is and what to do if he sees a person have one.”

“You told Babak so that he’d know what to do if I have a seizure.” Baran’s chest clenches as she says the words, a swell of anxiety in her. She knows it’s a possibility, has been terrified of her child seeing her have a seizure for the last year since they started again.

“Yes. Would you prefer that Babak not know what’s happening if he sees you have a seizure?” Baran wants to yell at Ahmad, wants to tell him that there’s nothing to worry about, that it won’t happen. But she knows she can’t guarantee that, knows he’s right to try to prepare their child. Baran certainly hadn’t, even after Ahmad had suggested it to her several times. “I think he’d be less scared if you told him you have epilepsy, but as you said, that’s yours to tell.”

Baran’s chest feels so tight that she can’t breathe, can’t speak. The idea of her child seeing her as vulnerable, as unable to protect him, is horrible. She’s his mother. Baran grew up with the weight of her mother’s grief, grew up feeling like she needed to protect her mother, needed to comfort her when she cried because of Baran’s illness. Baran will not put her child in that position, will never make him be the one to take care of her. And yet, the reality is that she might not be able to control if he one day ends up in that position.

***

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” Baran tells her son two nights later when they’re sitting on the sofa together.

“What’s wrong?” Babak ask, setting down his bowl of ice cream on the coffee table and looking at Baran with worry.

“Nothings wrong,” Baran tells her baby. This feels like so much for him to know. He’s only six. She needs to tell him without it being a burden, without him ever feeling like he is responsible for her. She is the parent. She needs to protect him.  

“You know how Baba was explaining to you what seizures are?”

“Yeah.” Babak looks at Baran with curiosity. He’s already planning to be a doctor like both of his parents, probably thought his father was just teaching him some medical subject like he and Baran often do. Baran takes a deep breath and wonders if this is the last time her child will look at her like she is able to take care of him.

“He was telling you because that’s something that happens to me sometimes, and he didn’t want you to be scared if you saw me have a seizure.”

“I thought you were going to say something bad,” Babak says, and Baran laughs before she can stop herself. There’s never been a moment of her life when having epilepsy didn’t feel like a shameful secret, and here her son is acting like it carries no sort of value, good or bad. Baran makes a mental note to call her ex-husband and apologize because however he explained this to their son, he did it in a way that Babak isn’t looking at Baran any differently.

“No, nothing bad,” Baran says, “but I wanted you to know so that if you see me have a seizure you aren’t afraid.”

“I won’t be,” Babak tells her.

Baran takes a deep breath and looks at her child, her child who isn’t scared, who doesn’t look like he no longer feels safe with her or like he can’t trust her. Baran steadies herself before she keeps talking, tries to take her own judgments out of the conversation, tries to share this in as neutral a way as her ex-husband had.

***

Babak is standing in front of Baran. He’d been across the room playing while she read on the sofa. A sinking feeling of dread settles over her as she realizes what happened.

“Maman, are you ok?” Babak asks, and Baran takes a shuddering breath, tries to fight back the tears that are burning at her eyes. Her son just watched her have a seizure.

“I’m fine, azizam. Are you?” She rubs his arms soothingly. He must have been so afraid.

Babak nods and smiles, then asks, “Can we go to the playground after breakfast?” like nothing happened, like he hadn’t just watched his mother become unaware of the world around her and leave him all alone.

“Of course we can go to the playground,” she tells him, her heart pounding in her chest as she looks at her child and tries to make sure that he’s ok. “Do you want to have breakfast first?”

“Can we have pancakes with chocolate chips?” Babak asks. He sticks out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout before adding, “Please.”

Baran loves him so much, can’t imagine her life without this beautiful, sweet child. “How can I say no to that face?” she asks. She gets up and he follows her to the kitchen, chatting about how they should add whipped cream and maybe ice cream to their pancakes. Baran has to force herself to take slow, steady breaths to stop herself from sobbing.

No one has ever treated her exactly the same after she had a seizure. Something always shifted. A little more cautious, a bit more doting, like she was fragile. Even when it was subtle, something always shifted in that person’s eyes. But not her child, not her baby who is now insisting on sitting on the kitchen counter while they make breakfast together. Her child who is looking at her in the same trusting, loving way he always does, like he has never doubted for a moment in his life that Baran would always love him and keep him safe.