The first time I ever met my mother in Persia was a few years ago, in an office cubicle in the back of the local bank.

She was sitting on a stool with the other women of her family, some of whom were in the process of moving out.

As the bank manager walked by, he saw me and asked what I was doing there.

I told him it was my job to make sure she didn’t leave, and I would just have to wait.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her,” he said.

“It’s my job.”

I was just about to turn the corner, when I saw her.

She stopped and said: “What are you doing here?”

I said: I am here to make money.

I said, “I am not going anywhere.” “

You’re not going to make much money here,” she said.

I said, “I am not going anywhere.”

I didn’t even know her, just a girl from the bank who was always there for me.

We spent a lot of time in the office, talking, laughing, laughing and sometimes getting into arguments about money.

My mother would take my brother and me to the cinema, the theatre or to a concert.

My father would give us all a lot to eat, even if he wasn’t able to buy any of it.

My mum had a very demanding job, and she was always looking after me, helping me to get the right job and the right salary, or at least make sure that I got the right work.

But she never seemed to care about money at all.

She never thought about what she was going to do with her life, even though she had the means to do so.

My parents were divorced, and my mother has always wanted to be a stay-at-home mother, but I knew it was impossible.

My dad didn’t want to leave me.

My mom didn’t understand why I wanted to go back to Iran, to work in the banks or the petrol stations.

And I didn´t know how to feel about the whole world.

As a teenager, I was a child of a poor family.

My grandmother was an alcoholic and drug addict, who would beat her two sons with a belt and who even tried to kill them.

When I was three or four, my mother started taking me to Tehran and selling me as a slave to an old man in a bar.

I was told I was too old to work.

The old man told me to go to work at a petrol station and I was sent back to my mother.

My job was to clean the car, while she was washing and cleaning it.

When she left to go work, she gave me some money to buy clothes for my clothes.

She would also take me to see the local cinemas, the cinema halls or the theatre, so that I could watch the movies.

My first job in Iran was at a local cinema, when she got the money to give me clothes, I bought my first film.

When the director left, my mom came back and asked me if I wanted a job.

I replied, “Yes, I would like to work for you”.

She said: No, you can’t work at that cinema, because it is against my religion.

But I said I would.

I never left Iran and never got a job there.

My next job was in a petrol pump, when the money was no longer available.

I asked her to take me and my brother to the petrol station, so we could get the money.

The money had disappeared and I had to buy my own clothes.

I remember asking her: “How can I work here?”

She said that I couldn’t, because my brother was a spy, but then I told her about my religion, and it was the only thing that saved me from being killed.

I worked at the petrol pump for four years, and when I finished, I went back to the bank.

But in my second year of working, I realised I had no idea what I wanted, and wanted to leave the country.

I decided that I would never return to Iran.

My family was living in Tehran at the time, and now they are living in New York.

My sister, mother-in-law, brothers-in‑law and my aunt, sister-in and aunts are all in the US.

The bank manager is still there.

We have a house, a car and some money.

I have never met my father in the States.

My brother was killed in a car accident and I never saw him again.

My brothers-and-sisters-in the US and the US have told me stories about how they are going to see me when they get to the US, and how they don’t know where I am.

I don’t have a clue about my future.

I still don’t really know how I