Mahtab Rezaee

You’ll forget this when you grow up

Have you ever put off doing something for a long time—something you know you need to  do—just because you assume it won’t really help, and then when you finally do it, you feel  stupid because it actually did help? 

Well, I guess I’m finally going to pull myself together and fill another page with words. 

Like the old days, when I used to imagine an imaginary friend and write to them about my  experiences, thoughts, and feelings. Maybe that friend wasn’t real, but it felt like I truly knew  them, like they really existed. In the end, writing always gave me the comforting feeling of  talking to a friend. 

A friend who listens, who doesn’t judge you, and who cares about even the smallest details. 

Today I’m writing to you, because you also seem like someone who listens—and someone  who wouldn’t judge me for whispering and giggling with the girl sitting next to me in math  class when I was twelve. 

Of course, that doesn’t mean I was bad at the subject! 

I always got good grades in math, thanks to my mom, who forced me to attend private math  lessons and sit still long enough to finish my exercises. But in class, when my mom wasn’t  watching, the moment the teacher turned her back to write something on the board, I’d start  whispering to my friend—and it would ruin her concentration. 

Unfortunately, I don’t know where that teacher is now, but from this very page, I apologize to  her for what I did. I really wasn’t made for that kind of classes. 

I didn’t always get away with it, either. A few times the teacher separated my seat from my friend’s and gave me a warning—something like a minus point—to teach me a lesson. But who was listening? I was more stubborn than that, and I always found something to entertain myself with.

The last time it happened, the teacher lost her patience and kicked me out of the classroom. She told me to go to the principal’s office so they could call my family and “sort things out.” 

But I swear, that time was one of the few times I was actually innocent. If you don’t believe  me, let me tell you: two other kids sitting near me were talking, but the moment the teacher  turned around, they went silent out of fear. And because of my wonderful record, I was the  one who got blamed. 

When the teacher tried to send me out, a few of the kids spoke up and said it wasn’t me—but  instead of saving me, they got the other two kids in trouble too. So the teacher kicked all  three of us out, and we had to spend the entire class standing in the hallway until her lesson  was over, so she could take us to the principal’s office afterward and call our families. 

After class, while the principal was calling our families to come to school and “deal with us”  so we’d learn our lesson, our teacher scolded us hard and really put the fear in us.

My friend’s mom arrived first. 

To scare her, they told her they were planning to expel her daughter. 

But she defended my friend and seriously said, “Go ahead then! And with what right did you  keep my daughter outside the whole class?”

The three of us were standing behind the door, listening to the conversation between her and the teacher and the principal, and we were so relieved—apparently we weren’t going to get punished any further.  

Later we found out that the whole thing had been a setup to scare us, and they never actually intended to expel anyone for whispering or laughing in class.

Eventually my dad arrived.

I happily ran toward him to explain what happened, but before a single word could come out of my mouth, in a split second he stepped closer, and then I felt the burning sting of a hard slap across my face.

My teacher, the principal, and my friends all froze for a moment, staring at us. 

Then they quickly came over and took my dad into the office to calm him down so he wouldn’t stay angry.

It was the first and last time I ever experienced something like that, and I didn’t know how to react. So I just stood there silently. 

But when my friends came to check on me, I don’t know why, my tears suddenly started pouring—like a dam breaking all at once.

I don’t know what happened inside that office, but after a few minutes, my dad, the teacher, and the principal came out smiling.

My dad apologized to me. 

The teacher and principal smiled and said, “It’s okay, sweetheart, don’t be upset.”

Then they told my dad that Mahtab promised she would be a good girl from now on.

And when we were leaving, my teacher smiled at me and said, “You'll forget this when you grow up”

This sentence is often said to most children in our society when something bad happens to them, to give them comfort.
Later I found out why my dad had been so angry.

Over the phone, they hadn’t told him why they wanted him to come to the school—they didn’t explain what I had done.

My guess is that he imagined I had been seen with a strange boy at the school gate or somewhere, which, back then, in the country where I lived—Iran—was considered a huge scandal and a disgrace by most people.

Even now, there are families here who still have that traditional mindset. And things don’t always get solved with just a slap, but thankfully there are far fewer people like that these days.

Anyway, that day I told myself I would never forgive my dad for what he did. And honestly, there are many other things he has done in life that I don’t forgive him for. But we haven’t lived together for years now, and I don’t think about him that much anymore. 

After that day, I never whispered in class again, and I became one of the teachers’ favorite students.

Even though now, years later, I barely remember anything from those lessons.

I don’t know—now that I’m 23, can I say I’ve grown up?

Maybe I should listen to what my teacher said and wait until I’m older.

Because I still haven’t forgotten anything about that day!

Author’s Words:

This personal narrative is a poignant reflection on memory, punishment, and the silent scars left by cultural expectations. Through the lens of a childhood incident in an Iranian math class—where a father's public slap became a turning point—the piece explores the complex interplay between personal rebellion, familial shame, and the heavy weight of social norms. More than just a memory, it is an act of defiance against the promise of forgetting. The story captures a specific moment of growing up female in a traditional Iranian society, where a minor act of whispering could escalate into a major familial drama driven by deep-seated cultural codes of honor and shame. In doing so, it directly engages with the magazine's theme by offering a raw, personal window into the complex lived experiences that shape identity within an Asian cultural context. It questions what it truly means to "grow up" when certain memories refuse to fade. Ultimately, this piece is a quiet apology, a reclaimed voice, and a testament to the enduring power of writing as a means to process the past and speak to a compassionate, unseen friend—or reader.

Author’s Biography:

Mahtab is a writer from Iran. Her primary focus is creative non-fiction, where she gives voice to the quiet, pivotal moments that shape a life. She believes in writing as an act of reclaiming one's own story. When not writing, she can be found lost in a book or rolling dice in a D&D campaign.