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“Maybe you stick to politics, and I’ll handle the cooking,” she suggests, her voice playful yet layered with an intimacy that thrums in the air between us.
“Deal,” I murmur, my smile lingering even as I serve up the misshapen pancakes.
Looking at them, then at her, I realize perfection isn’t what I seek — not in breakfast, not in life. With Tara, every flawed flip, every burst of laughter becomes a cherished memory, a step away from the isolation I’ve built around myself and my son.
The clatter of small feet on the staircase pulls me from the cocoon of warmth Tara and I have woven around ourselves. Aliappears in the kitchen doorway, eyes widening with unbridled joy when they land on Tara.
“Dr. Tara! You came back!”
I bite into my smile and look away, knowing exclusively — of course — that Tara never left the house at all.
“Of course I came back,” she says, and he rushes into her embrace like it’s where he’s meant to be.
“I’m hungry,” Ali announces.
“How about some pancakes?” I ask.
“Cake?” He climbs onto a barstool.
“It’s close,” Tara explains. “It’s what I ate sometimes for breakfast when I was your age. It’s really good.”
Together, we settle into an easy morning, our little trio finding harmony in the chaos of spilled orange juice and crumbled pancake pieces. After breakfast, Ali retreats to the living room, hypnotized by the vibrant colors and catchy theme songs of his favorite cartoons. Tara and I slip outside, where the deck bathes in the golden glow of the morning. The world seems to hold its breath, and for a moment, everything is still.
“Mmm, I love this,” she murmurs beside me, closing her eyes and breathing in the fresh air.
We sip our coffee, every little bird tweet making me feel lighter, brighter. The porcelain warms my hands, a tangible reminder of the life unfolding before me — a life that feels more complete with her in it.
“Me too,” I confess, turning my gaze towards her.
It’s almost crazy how natural this feels, how right. This came out of nowhere — the possibility of us, of a relationship in my life.
“Look at those clouds, Faiz. They’re perfect,” she whispers, pointing to the sky. I follow her finger, seeing the whimsical shapes adrift in a sea of blue.
“Perfect,” I echo, not looking at the clouds now, but at her.
In this quiet moment, with the melodies of Ali’s laughter drifting from inside and the soft touch of Tara’s hand on mine, I let myself believe in the possibility of a future unmarred by the ghosts of duty and tradition.
“What?” she asks, catching me staring at her.
“A lot,” I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. “I truly like having you here. A lot.”
A blush spreads across her cheeks. “I like being here.”
“I haven’t felt judged since you came into our lives. It’s… refreshing.” My admission hangs between us, delicate and candid.
Tara shifts slightly, her gaze lingering on the garden before meeting mine. She offers me a small, reassuring smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Can I… tell you something?” she asks.
I tilt my head. Why does she look so nervous? “Of course.”
“Faiz, you’re an incredible father. Ali adores you, and it’s clear why,” she says.
The compliment settles over me like a warm blanket, but the hesitance in her tone nudges at my defenses. I wait, knowing there’s more she wants to say.
She takes a deep breath, and the air around us feels charged. “But I worry about him,” she confesses, and the words land with a weight I wasn’t prepared for. “When I was young, my parents pushed me away from friendships, drove me into my studies. Now, as an adult, I find myself isolated. I don’t know how to reach out and make friends.”
Her vulnerability echoes my own fears — a reflection in a mirror I’ve avoided looking into for too long.