Sorry for the Inconvenience: A Memoir

by Farah Naz Rishi

so much of what we refer to as “nonfiction” relies on our perception of the world and the events unfolding around us. Nonfiction is based on real things that actually happened, yes, but nonfiction is never exactly the full truth:

Dad went on. “Your nani thinks the worst of people, and I think sometimes your mom does that, too. But it’s learned behavior. It’s not personal.” I’ve always hated that phrase. Half the time, whenever someone says It’s not personal, it feels like a get-out-of-jail-free card. It’s a way to refuse responsibility for hurting someone.

Watching him now, I’d be a fool to doubt he loved me, at least as best friends. What else would explain how much he cared, how he was always there for me? How he was the only consistent thing in my life that made sense? But it’s hard to recognize love and all its forms when you’ve never seen it before. I was so sure that there was only one kind of “real love,” and that real love would be some big dramatic, storybook moment, a sudden flare of passion that would make itself known.

Mom looked more peaceful than she had in months. It reminded me of something I’d read in a book by bell hooks: “Rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.”