Not Without My — Daughter Book

The flight to Tehran had been long. Mahtob had slept against her shoulder, and Betty had felt a flutter of adventure. They landed in a city that hummed with a foreign energy—the call to prayer, the scent of saffron and exhaust, the stern gaze of revolutionary guards. Moody’s family greeted them with effusive hugs and trays of sweets. His mother, a formidable woman with hennaed hair and eyes that missed nothing, kissed Betty on both cheeks. “You are home,” she said.

It would take years of legal battles, of hiding, of looking over her shoulder. But on that day, in that moment, Betty Mahmoody did something she had not done in two years. She closed her eyes, tilted her face to the sun, and whispered a single word: “Home.”

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.

And then they walked.

Behind them, they heard dogs barking. Flashlights flickered in the distance. Iranian border patrol. Ali hissed, “Faster! They have dogs!”

Ali counted it, sighed, and pointed to a beat-up truck. “We leave now. The border is sixty kilometers. We walk the last twenty. If the soldiers see us, run. Do not look back. If you fall, I will not carry you.”

“We made it, sweetheart,” Betty whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Not without my daughter. Never without my daughter.” not without my daughter book

The flight back to Michigan was long and silent. Mahtob slept. Betty stared out the window at the Atlantic Ocean, a vast blue expanse that felt like the first safe thing she had seen in two years. She thought of Moody, who would wake to an empty apartment, who would rage and threaten and swear vengeance. She knew he would fight for custody. She knew the nightmare was not entirely over. But for now, she was airborne. For now, she was free.

Three days later, after a harrowing journey to Ankara and a tense interrogation at the American embassy, Betty held a new passport. Mahtob’s small hand was still clutched in hers. The consul looked at them—two ragged, exhausted Americans with haunted eyes—and said softly, “Welcome home, Mrs. Mahmoody.”

But under the surface, Betty was building a network. She found a kindred spirit in a Turkish neighbor named Mrs. Hakimi, who slipped her a few thousand rials and whispered, “There is a man. A smuggler. He takes people to the Turkish border. It is very dangerous. Many are caught. Many are shot.” The flight to Tehran had been long

She woke Mahtob with a kiss. “Time for the adventure,” she whispered.

Betty wrote the name on a scrap of paper: Ali. She hid it in the hem of Mahtob’s coat.

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. Moody’s family greeted them with effusive hugs and

They met Ali, the smuggler, in a dusty garage on the outskirts of Tabriz. He was a small, wiry man with a scarred face and the eyes of a predator. He looked at Betty and Mahtob and shook his head. “A woman and a child? The mountains will eat you.”

Ali pointed to a faint light in the distance. “That is a village. Go there. Tell them you are American. You will be safe now.” He turned and disappeared back into the darkness, back toward Iran. He had done his job.