Page 65 of Drunk On Love

“Manav,

If you’re reading this, it means the day has come when I can no longer explain myself in person. I hope you’ll forgive me for the choice I made, but it’s time I tell you the truth about why I did what I did.

Do you remember the summer when you were four? The doctors told me that my surgery needed to happen immediately, but the risks were high—too high. There was a chance I wouldn’t wake up. And I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you, even for the smallest possibility that I might not make it. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to you, my little boy with the brightest smile and the biggest dreams.

So, I postponed it. I told myself it could wait. Every second with you was a gift, Manav. Watching you grow, hearing your laughter, and seeing the way you tackled life with so much determination—it was worth every risk I took. I made that decision selfishly because I couldn’t bear to lose the chance to watch you become the incredible person I knew you’d be.

I know you were angry when you found out later. Angry that I gambled with my health, with my life. But, please understand—I wasn’t just gambling with my life. I was choosing to live it. With you. For you.

I don’t regret my decision for even a moment. If I had gone through with the surgery back then, there was a chance I wouldn’t have been there for the milestones that shaped you—your first school award, your ridiculous science experiments, the way you swore you’d be a chef and then an astronaut all in the same week. Those moments were my life,Manav. And I wasn’t ready to give them up.

But I’m sorry if my choice caused you pain. I’m sorry if it made you feel scared or unsure. That was never my intention. All I ever wanted was to hold onto the time we had, to soak in every moment with you for as long as I could. If there’s one thing I want you to remember, it’s this: You are not alone. You never were. And you never will be.

Please forgive me for the times I fell short. And please know, with every fiber of your being, how much I loved you, how much I still love you.

Forever yours,

Mom.”

I leaned back, the final letter clutched to my chest.

I didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t hear the footsteps.

But I felt her. Kiara.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t announce herself. She just walked in, barefoot and quiet, like she’d always belonged in this space—like the walls of this house recognized her softness, her silence.

I didn’t look up. Couldn’t.

My jaw was tight. My eyes stung. And the ache in my chest was too raw to name.

She didn’t ask what I was reading. She didn’t ask if I was okay.

She just… came closer.

And without a word, she knelt beside me. Her hands found mine—warm, steady, threading through the cold tension of my fingers like a lifeline.

Her presence didn’t demand. It offered.

Her touch didn’t push. It waited.

And somehow, that was what undid me.

“She knew I wouldn't read them soon,” I said quietly. “She postponed her surgery.” My voice trembled. “She knewthere was a chance she wouldn’t make it, but she… she stayed. For me.”

Kiara wrapped her arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug. At first, my body stiffened, as though it was resisting the comfort. But then, slowly, it gave in, melting into her like I’d been holding my breath for too long. I let my head drop against her shoulder like gravity had finally won.

“I thought I was past this,” I murmured, barely trusting my own voice.

“No one ever really is,” she whispered. “You don’t move on. You just move… differently.”

I looked at her then. Her eyes weren’t pitying. They were open. Anchored. Holding mine like she could take the weight if I handed it over.

I let out a breath, and her fingers squeezed mine—once, firmly. Like a promise.

We sat like that for a while. The letters still open. The grief still lingering. But somehow, it didn’t feel quite as unbearable.

And for the first time in a long time… someone saw the pieces of me I’d hidden in this house.