When I thought about it, I realized I no longer needed to do something just to win someone’s approval.

I loved painting.

It was still at the top of my list of interests.

But I had no desire to take another entrance exam or spend years at university.

I thought: Why do I need university at all?

Whatever I need to learn about painting, I can learn.

If there is a course, a teacher, or even a book that can teach me, I’ll use whatever is within my reach.

I no longer needed a certificate to prove myself.

Sina loved me.

Even without that certificate.

And if I was going to earn a living through painting, I didn’t need a degree for that either.

I had the advantage of my parents’ income.

Maybe it would take years before I could make money from painting.

But I had their income.

Before this, thinking that way would have seemed shameful to me. Depending on my parents’ income had embarrassed me.

But I had grown up.

I had become realistic.

I understood how misleading the myths of success could be.

I was not a genius.

I wasn’t like the people described in books about the secrets of success—those people who had started with nothing, lived below the poverty line, had irresponsible parents, and spent the first years of their lives in the worst possible circumstances, yet somehow achieved spectacular success.

Now I understood limitations and circumstances.

I knew I wasn’t some superwoman with supernatural powers.

Once that false pressure was lifted—the pressure to be special, to do something extraordinarily special—I could finally do what everyone else did: take one step at a time along a path I actually loved.

I chose painting and began to learn.

Books. Teachers. Workshops. Instructional videos. In short, whatever I needed.

When I told Sina about my decision, he strongly encouraged me.

“Just don’t rush, Mahta. Slowly and steadily.”

Now I understood the value of those words.

I was deeply grateful that he accepted me as I was and never pressured me.

Three months after Sina left, his father died.

A few months later, Sina returned to Iran.

We got married.

Very simply. No special celebration.

On my side, only my aunt Monir and her husband attended. On Sina’s side, it was his friend and his friend’s wife—the same woman whose presence had once upset me so much.

Sina’s mother had become much calmer in Germany after her husband’s death.

She no longer hated me. Seeing her son happy beside me made her happy too.

We moved into our small home a few streets away from the old one.

Years after deciding to paint, I was still studying and working in the same field. I was still happy. I still had no desire to change direction. And every day, I was still satisfied with what I did.

I had even sold several paintings, and today, for the first time, I had received a sizable check.

I had left my key in the door, and the building manager’s wife would be late.

Sina would be late getting home tonight too.

I was annoyed about it.

It was rare for him not to be home in the afternoons.

Now, five years into our marriage, we had become deeply attached to each other.

Call it habit. Call it love. Call it whatever you like.

Sina and I were happy with this dependence.

I had received calm and stillness from him, and he had received energy and liveliness from me.