“A second later, the door swings open and all of Dad’s six-foot-one person is standing there, dressed in a T-Shirt and jeans, with a towel pressed to the back of his head. 
‘Talin?’ He blinks. The way he says my name is always different than my mom. He strikes the T sharply with his tongue and draws out the vowels, his American way. Tah-leen. When mom used to say my name it was softer, the Armenian way. ‘Sorry. I was in the shower.’
It takes a moment for him to move aside. He is looking at me the way he often does lately. His brown eyes become small and glassy with sadness. But Dad hasn’t looked at me much since Mom died. Not if he can help it.”

— TALIN VARTANIAN IS THE SUN, Marina Green