Not Without My Daughter Book Guide

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.”

The snow on the Alborz Mountains looked deceptively peaceful, like a postcard slipped under the door of a nightmare. Betty Mahmoody stared at it from the frost-veined window of her mother-in-law’s apartment in Tehran, a city that had become her gilded cage. Just three weeks ago, that snow had been a novelty. Now, it was a wall. not without my daughter book

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. Three days later, after a harrowing journey to

When the plane touched down in Detroit, the wheels hitting the tarmac with a solid, reassuring thud, Betty unbuckled her seatbelt. She looked at Mahtob, who opened her eyes and smiled—a real smile, the first Betty had seen in months. Mahmoody