Cruelty and the teen experience are often synonymous, and Najam’s harelip and long hooked nose made him an easy target. I didn’t know if he was devout, nor did I doubt he felt like an outsider. When I asked my daughter Georgina about him, she replied with a note of defensive incivility, sounding a lot like Clare, her mother, that organized religion was never what anybody’s God had in mind. I could no longer make Georgina attend mass or pray for Najam. Neither could Clare. Accepting limitations is one of those difficult lessons each parent learns.

Yet Najam and I would not have crossed paths if it weren’t for Georgina. She played Rosalind in Fortuna High’s production of As You Like It. Najam had minced about barefoot in green leotards as one of the Woodsmen of the Forest of Arden, but Georgina stole the show. Clare and I could not have been prouder. Backstage after seeing the play, I asked Najam why he’d chosen to be in it. His answer stunned me. “I love Georgina. I am very serious.”

“Well, she’s off to college in the fall.”

“No, Mr. Guerin. You don’t understand. I want to marry her.”

This boy needed to slow down. I could help. Was Georgina leading him on? I remembered her telling me how he had “focus” and treated her as an equal. I’d dismissed this as puppy love. So had Clare. Georgina had choices, talent, a future, plenty of time ahead for romance.

Najam haunted my dreams. He couldn’t take my Georgina. Nobody could. Not yet. Too early. It wasn’t that Clare and I disliked him. As her graduation day approached, we asked Georgina about Najam almost daily. In a fever of gratitude she’d update us. Clare and I heard stories about children rejecting their parents, so we were thrilled to be kept informed.

Clare arguing, “We have to let go,” demanded I play a more active role. I learned that Najam lost both parents, a younger brother, and a sister in a drone strike near Aleppo. He was ten when he arrived as a refugee and lived in the poorest part of Fortuna with an older cousin, Samir, who was married to Sharon. Like Clare, I couldn’t explain why I viewed Georgina’s affection for Najam as potentially dangerous. Did that make me racist or Islamophobic? I tried instead to view it as an expression of her loving heart.

Najam responded to my first text, agreeing to meet one evening. We shared a pizza at a place I chose, suspecting incorrectly he’d never been. Najam ate there so often he knew immigrant Luigi, the owner, by his first name. Luigi, knowing me from church, remarked, “Najam very serious boy.”

I learned his name was Najam Abdel Eisaa and he didn’t care that his male classmates called him Creature. As he viewed it, to get tagged by the group was a perverse form of acceptance. “I don’t need or want it, but having it makes it easier.” Najam was happy to talk. “I’m not into drugs, and it’s not black versus white. None of that. Some guys I like, some I don’t. I had fun in the play. I got to know Georgina.”

“You’re a Muslim, aren’t you? What about that?”

“I’m not anything, Mr. Guerin. Samir, he talks to me about this sometimes. He wants me to believe, but I don’t.”

“Faith can move mountains. Maybe your cousin is on to something.”

He countered that Georgina had told him this once and now he knew where she got it from. “She has a natural talent. She’d be a good mother. She loves children.”

“She could teach after she graduates.” I paused. “From college.” I paused again. “You read me?”

He said he did. That he owed his success at school to Georgina. Samir, too.

“So your cousin is Muslim?”

He shook his head no. “He has two daughters. When he married Sharon, he got citizenship. He became a Christian too. The Fortuna New Gospel Church.”

“You do know that her mother would insist Georgina marry in the Catholic church. I would too.”

“I know, I know, but Georgina doesn’t believe in church. Not anymore. She told me. But you know, she respects Samir and Sharon. So do I.”

“And why’s that?”

“She says it’s because they are genuine, that they have unconditional undying love.”

“Sounds like Georgina. Hopeless romantic.”

“That’s what she told me. But she’s not hopeless. She knows I’m serious, and that I’ll work hard for us.”

I’d heard enough. “Don’t you think you’re going a little too fast?”

I thought he’d be miffed and look away. He didn’t. “No, I don’t, Mr. Guerin. You don’t pick love. It’s not a choice. It just happens to you. Don’t you know that?”

Of course, I knew. I also found him impudent. “Look, Najam, I think you mean well, but let me tell you what I know about love and raising a daughter. Not a thing. Women change their minds. So do men. Anything can happen. Not just love.”

In the silence that followed my remark, I felt as if I were collapsing. Not my Georgina; I couldn’t lose her. Besides, Clare would never approve.

Najam went on. “Together we’re six. It’s crowded, but still better than Syria when I left.”

“Bad there?”

“No.” He paused. “Yes.” He paused again. “No.”

I didn’t press him. I’d already gone too far.

When I told Georgina about our conversation, making sure Clare was in the room, she pleaded with us to have him over for dinner. “Now that it’s out.”

“But we’ve known all along,” I said.

“No you haven’t. It’s been three years.”

“Three?” Clare turned and gaped at me.

“We’ll have him over,” I said.

Later, in private, Clare asked me why I’d been so eager to cooperate. “It’s like you already made up your mind,” she said.

“Clare, we need to see them side by side, in action. Give yourself credit. You can be very persuasive. Once she’s off to college it might be too late.”

Najam came once. It wasn’t a drama. He came again. He brought flowers. He was composed, dressed well, polite. He came a few times more. He appeared to enjoy the ritual of courtship and it occurred to me that perhaps he and Georgina hadn’t been as sexually involved as Clare and I had imagined. They were both cordial to us and to each other. I thought it too good to be true. When I confessed this to Clare, she agreed, calling it a performance. She knew her daughter the actress. When she wanted something she knew how to get it.

“We’re not doing enough, Barry. We need to be more involved.”

 I promised Clare I’d do all I could. We insist Georgina finish college first, then we’d reassess. Gradually, she and Najam might show interest in coming to St. Peter’s with us. I remembered my own fallow years of losing interest in religious faith. If love happened, so did rebellion. Perhaps Clare and I were overreacting. Nonetheless, we talked night after night, airing our fears, agreeing we would be consistent and set boundaries.

“Limits are good, they help,” said Clare.

“It could also be a matter of age-appropriate behavior.”

“Because of what they are, Barry, don’t you see? Mere children.”

Just like us, I thought. Forever failing and reborn.

We saw, as summer began, how their circle of friends grew. Najam came by more often. Clare and I began to enjoy helping him feel at home. My curiosity about the boy’s life, about Syria and the Middle East remained endless, so I also felt I should be more compassionate, to do whatever possible to help Najam brook new pathways. This was, I suppose, due to my Catholic upbringing and not having a son of my own. I prayed for Najam. I didn’t question my motivations. Though I liked seeing Georgina happy, I didn’t like imagining her alone with him. With anyone, for that matter. This was parenting, however. Live and die by concessions. Not a day passed when Clare and I didn’t let something go or learn how little we really understood.

Then Georgina said it to us one Saturday afternoon while we were outdoors enjoying barbecue. “I love him. I love him so much.”

What were Clare and I to do? Our baby was blossoming in front of our eyes.

Najam was there, apron on, spatula in hand. He had a knack and passion for grilling meat. I approached him and asked about his plans. He said, “To make her happy. That’s all.”

What did that mean? Perhaps I should have asked.

Clare and I resumed our fervent discussions. Summer waxed and waned. We hatched our own plan, asking Georgina if she approved of us asking Najam to rent the spare room next to what would soon by her old room. There were three, all empty, upstairs. One full of Clare’s Christmas boxes. The other two with a bed in each. We also understood that, though he played a role as babysitter and uncle in Samir’s house, Najam slept on the sofa and lacked his own room.

Georgina didn’t bat an eye. “Genius, Daddy. I had a dream about this. You must have heard it. Najam and I share dreams all the time.”

When I spoke to Najam, his eyebrows conjoined to form a pronounced V as a wolfish intensity smoldered in his dark eyes. He’d think about it.

A week later, he said yes. “I talked to Samir. It’s time for me to start paying rent.”

In four years, Georgina would have her diploma. Najam could stay with us the entire time. By then, Clare and I would know without question if he was a suitable match.

We set aside a full Saturday to help Najam move. Clare prepared a huge meal, expecting Sharon, Samir, and their children. Only Najam arrived in his old car with a suitcase and two boxes. His move took less than an hour. He had to work that night, so he didn’t stay for dinner. Clare was crestfallen. I told her, “Look on the bright side, honey. Najam works all the time. That night gig at the restaurant, it’s his second job. Mark my words. He’ll pay his rent and he’ll save too. Those are admirable qualities in a man.”

He was always working. Full-time days as part of a crew that poured concrete foundations. Part-time nights and weekends as a cook. He paid in cash not only rent but his share of the utilities, food, and Clare doing his laundry, and he never complained about missing Georgina who was already away as a resident intern at an established dinner theater near the ocean. She waited tables, got her meals for free, and worked behind the scenes of each musical production. Clare and I visited twice, about a six-hour drive, and on both occasions Najam expressed no interest in joining us. He’d see Georgina when she came back in late August.

Clare spoke to Georgina at least once a week by phone. I didn’t pry. I was busy with work. Najam never answered when I asked what he heard from Georgina. “You’re still seeing each other, aren’t you?”

“Our love is endless,” he said. “I’m saving for us. For our home. Remember, Luigi? He said I’m serious. Don’t you think that about me too?”

When Georgina came back from her dinner theatre gig she had only a few days before needing to move into her campus dorm room. Her voice had deepened and its range had grown. She was less effervescent, more grounded, her confidence having developed along with her slightly fuller bust and hips. She spoke with her hands more often, too, sometimes gesturing in annoying ways. There was nothing insipid about my little girl. Though I said not a word, I found it a shock she cut her hair short and frosted it with strains of a soft chromatic pink.

Clare was phlegmatic. Not alarmed. “Barry, we all go through changes. She’s finding herself. It’s what we want as parents, after all.”

“But she doesn’t look as pretty anymore. Like she’s maybe trying to be less attractive.”

“Oh please. She won’t be objectified. Her words. Not mine. And the baby fat. She’ll lose it. She said the dinner theater food was so good that all the girls put on a few pounds.”

“But Najam?”

“Him?” Clare smirked. “Oh, Barry. You men really don’t get it, do you?”

What did that mean? Wanting to avoid an argument, I didn’t ask.

I never saw Georgina, back for less than a week, spend time with Najam. He left early for work. She slept late and was picked up by a girlfriend. She came home well after Najam went to bed.

Clare and I drove her with her luggage to the college, taking her out to dinner, walking on the main street in her little college town that looked like a movie set. We then said goodbye, Clare unable to hold back tears. Najam wasn’t with us. His name never even came up. I kept looking at Georgina and thinking: Who is this? Where’s my daughter?

Back home, I tried to talk to Najam. He never mentioned Georgina. As if he wanted no part of them, he refused to discuss religion, Syria, Yemen, Libya or Gaza. He was either on his phone texting, or his plugged ears were listening to music. The only thing he did was teach Clare and me that his name translated as “Morning Star.”

One night, he came home earlier than usual. I’d eaten dinner and was in the living room watching television. Clare on the sofa sat bundled in her pink robe while sipping tea. As usual, the news had been torching bonfires of disgust inside of me. I was being lied to by a panel of bloviating experts screaming about who was right, who wrong. I remember how they attacked each other, convinced they knew better.

Najam stood next to me in my favorite easy chair. He said, “I asked her.”

I grabbed my remote, muting the television. “Who? Asked what?”

“She said no.” He sounded a meek whimper. What I saw of the pain in his face shocked me. Dark pools deepened by the icy glow of the television light hollowed out his eyes. What had this boy seen? He began to quake while he squeezed both fists, his breathing strained and uneven.

He answered Clare’s question. No, Georgina hadn’t explained. “She’s not serious,” he said.

 How to strike the right, compassionate tone? I turned in my chair to face him. He was Morning Star now, his innocence lost so early. Not strange Najam, but just a boy I liked, who worked hard, one I’d grown to respect. I remembered my own father, seeking to assist and comfort me, saying, “Barry, you go be great. Don’t let anything stop you.”

I don’t know what I expected from myself. Or from Najam. He didn’t insult me by looking glib or indifferent. On the contrary, he looked too much like a man, too raw with disgust, his cheeks enflamed yet as smooth as garnets. I hadn’t expected any of this. I’ll never forget the way he eyeballed me. Lips sealed, he glared as he looked around the room. The television light skipped, spiking up the walls. Then he turned and loped upstairs to his room. I called for him, hoping he’d stop.

“Honey, no, let him go, he’s okay.”

I doubted Clare believed her own words. “What’s going on? What did I miss?”

“He’s too serious, Barry. He’s been through a lot. Besides, Georgina already called me. She was in tears, but she had to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Say no. She’s got her own life now. It’s a lot for her. For any girl her age. That’s what you men just don’t understand.”

Not what I’d expected at all. Yet hadn’t a tiny part of me hoped for this? But why did pain and tears have to be involved? Well, they were young. They’d get over it. I’d talk to Najam, take him to Luigi’s again. Remind him faith moved mountains.

That never happened. Najam was found across town slumped at the wheel in the front seat of his car, a razor blade cupped in his right hand, both wrists slashed, his clothes drenched in blood, an empty bottle of liquor on the floor at his feet. There was no note.

Clare at her worst, deranged with grief and guilt, needing to hurt me, shouting you men just don’t get it insisted there were opportunities to step in, to dig deeper, but I’d been too blind, too busy working, fearing, dreaming.

What had Najam and Georgina last said to each other? I didn’t know.

“Of course not,” she shouted. “You never knew.”

I absorbed her blows and labored to learn more, to get closer, but to no avail. Georgina and Clare and I continued to grow estranged. Healing feels impossible.

Blame? It’s linked to expectations. An admission someone has done wrong. Not that love just happens or that we fully understand each other.