Several years later, Efraim is in bed. He is much older now, at death’s door. He asks for his son.

“Memo, habibi?”

Zeynel stands up from where he was seated at the end of the bed. He looks older too, balding in that same way his father did during his mid-thirties, further emphasising their physical resemblance.

“Yes, baba? Do you need anything?”

Efraim coughs. The cancer has weakened him considerably. “I… I just want you to know, I’m very proud of you. You didn’t become an imam, like I wanted. But you did what you felt was right for you, and you did it well.”

Efraim proudly looks at his son. Zeynel is overcome by emotion.

“That was what I needed from you.”

Zeynel collapses onto his knees. “Oh, baba, I… I…”

Efraim scoffs. “Speak up. I’m dying here.”

Zeynel breathes in, then exhales. “I… I’m sorry if I ever blamed you for my character. That’s not your fault. I think… I can handle it now.”