Not Without My Daughter — Book

He slammed his fist on the table. Rice and flatbread jumped. “I am not being ridiculous! You will learn to obey. This is Iran. Here, I am the law. You will not take my daughter back to that corrupt, godless country.”

Betty picked up Mahtob and ran. The weight of her daughter, the burning in her lungs, the fear—it all fused into a single, animal instinct. She did not feel the cold. She did not feel the rocks cutting her feet through her thin shoes. She only felt the need to move. not without my daughter book

But on the tenth day, the cracks appeared. Moody returned from visiting a cousin with a dark look. He tore up their return tickets at the breakfast table. “We are not going back,” he said, not looking at her. He slammed his fist on the table

It was the longest night of Betty’s life. The smuggler moved like a ghost. Betty held Mahtob’s hand, half-carrying, half-dragging her through the snow. The child’s lips turned blue. Her breathing became labored—the asthma. Betty stopped, dug out the inhaler from the coat lining, and gave her two puffs. “You can do this,” she whispered. “We are almost there.” You will learn to obey

The world tilted. Betty grabbed Mahtob’s hand. Her mind raced through the logistics: the passport, the embassy, the airport. But she soon learned the cruel arithmetic of the Islamic Republic. As an American woman married to an Iranian man, she was his property. She could not leave the country without his written permission. And Mahtob, born to an Iranian father, was considered Iranian. She could not leave without her father’s consent either.

That night, as Mahtob slept curled beside her, Betty pressed her face into the pillow and made a silent vow. It was not a vow of hope. It was a vow of iron. She would get her daughter out of this country, or she would die trying. There was no third option.