“Eat, love,” he commands. “I gotta make a quick call, then I’m yours for the rest of the day.” His hours are rarely regular, his phone ringing at odd times, but I’m used to it. I see how hard he tries to give us a normal life despite his responsibilities.
My upbringing was a festival of bizarre rules and impossible expectations. Normal does not have a fixed definition in my mind. We create our own version. Even if no one else understands it, it works for us.
My garden calls me from the window, so I take my plate and move to the bench, looking over my flowers. Morning frost still clings to some corners of the lawn. A bird hops along the edge of the fence, chirping away. A squirrel darts across the grass, stops, looks around as if it suspects a trap, then disappears behind the vegetable patch. My eyes narrow on some roots that have been dug out. Probably a hungry little animal working overnight. I make a mental note to check it later. The garden is my ongoing project, my patch of earth to learn from and take care of. I have spent hours reading blog posts and watching videos since Vox showed me how the internet works. People all over the worldshare advice on how to grow berries, vegetables, and fruit trees. I soak up every bit of knowledge like a sponge.
Regardless of the weather, Vox usually finds me out there at some point in the day, dirt under my nails, my knees wet from the grass. I am always pulling out weeds, replanting anything that grows too wild, or checking if sprouts made it through the night. On the colder days, he tries to bargain, suggests hiring a gardener, saying that my hands are too precious to freeze. I always refuse, and he knows he will lose that argument. Eventually, he gives in and starts layering me with two of his sweaters over my wool dresses, tucking the sleeves over my hands. Then he comes outside with me, muttering about frostbite while helping me secure covers over delicate stems. Every time he does that, a quiet joy unfurls inside me. There was a time when no one cared whether I was cold or hungry. Now he’s always here, even swearing under his breath while tying garden fleece around stakes so my plants survive.
I take a bite of waffle and close my eyes. Butter melts instantly on my tongue. Real food used to be a rare treat. Pleasure was rationed, if not nonexistent. Vox understood that instinctively. Not long after we moved here, he made me sit at his kitchen table with a pen and paper.
“New list,” he signed. The first one he made me write was about food; back then, we didn’t even live together. The thought tastes foreign and bitter. It’s impossible to picture a world where I’m not coming home to him anymore. He told me to write down everything I had ever wanted to try. Every silly idea or dream I had seen glimpses of in the streets, overheard in conversations, or noticed from afar. I didn’t know where to start. Give someone a chance to bite life without restriction, and you’ll realise it’s not as easy as it seems. I had been hungry for freedom for such a long time, I didn’t even know what sustenance was anymore. Wanting to try new things took time, so the page remained blankat first. After a few days, he gave me the list back, insisting on me writing anything down, even the silliest idea, and offering suggestions whenever I got stuck. His encouragement gave me strength, and I started writing.
Going to a fair.
Order tea by myself in a coffee shop.
Going to the cinema.
Eat in a restaurant.
Learn to use a TV remote.
Start an art class.
We tackled them one by one, keeping the ever-growing list on our fridge held by a magnet we bought in Canada on a hiking trip. It’s shaped like a tiny maple leaf and reminds me of our time there, on my very first holiday ever. The staircase creaks softly as I head upstairs to get dressed. Vox insisted we keep as much of the original structure as we could. Brick walls meet white paint, old woods mixing with modern finishes. When I look at my house, I see our story and the beginning of a new chapter. I will never forget the day he told me this place was ours. He parked the car and walked me up the path, keys hidden in his fist, then he took my hand, opened my palm, and placed the key in it, closing my fingers around the metal.
“Our home,” he signed. Tears poured down my cheeks before I could stop them, and I know this is where I’ll go one day when I take a spin down memory lane. Almost ready, I stand in front of the mirror and add a bit of mascara, careful not to poke my eye, which happened a lot at the beginning. I chose my favourite blue flare jeans and a light blue sweater that slides off one shoulder. Two large hands land on my waist, anchoring me. He drops a kiss on my exposed shoulder, his lips lingering for a moment.
“Hey,” he murmurs. We stand together facing the mirror, him towering behind. His short chocolate hair slightly disheveled in that way that I love. Tattoos creep from under hisnavy collar and lick up the side of his neck. Every line and curve is familiar to me now, like the pages of a book I know by heart.
“Ready?” he asks.
I sign, “Almost.” He moves around me, circling to his side of the sink. His toothbrush sits in its exact spot near the soap, always the same distance from his razor. He nudges it back into alignment by a fraction of an inch, barely noticeable unless you know him. I smile into the mirror. My man has his quirks. At first, he tried to hide them, but it became all too apparent how much he needed to keep things in order. It took him a bit of time to understand that I didn’t mind. That I loved him exactly as he was, with all his habits and lines and rules. I guess marriage might have started there for us, long before we ever spoke about rings or vows. In seeing the other fully and remaining anyway. Just like his love for me translates into little acts, every single day.
I have woken up in the middle of the night to find a dim light near the armchair by my side of the bed. He would sit there with his phone, replaying sign language videos again and again, copying each movement until his hands remembered. His face looked so focused, brows drawn, lips moving as if he was sounding out silent words. Back when I used to seek shelter at his place, I would catch glimpses of him watching me sleep from that same chair. Maybe his underworld, as he calls it, was too bloody sometimes. He once told me that watching over me felt like looking at his heart sleeping outside of his body and that he needed to make sure it kept beating.
I finish with the mascara and tap twice on his shoulder. Two taps have become a small signal I use whenever I am ready, whether we are leaving a place or done with a task. He straightens and we head downstairs together. I grab my navy coat and brown boots. He slides into his black vest, the fabric stretching over his muscular shoulders. A large cream scarfhangs from the mantel. He picks it up and wraps it carefully around my neck until the ends hang down my chest.
“It’s cold outside, angel,” he says, tucking the scarf in slightly. I squeeze his hand twice once I finish buttoning my coat. He squeezes back, his gaze sweeping over me like I am one of the seven wonders.
“Ice skating, here we come,” he says, pulling the door open. Winter air rushes in, sharp against our faces. The sky is pale, our breath coming out in little clouds, and somewhere inside me a new kind of excitement unfurls. We step out together, fingers intertwined, leaving our home behind for a little while.
Ice-skating with my fiancé.
Another box on the list ready to be ticked.
Vox
“I’m regretting this,” I sign, eyeing left and right for any fucker who could land in her on the ice.
“Don’t,” she signs with a silent giggle. “Look, I’m-oh, ooh-” she mouths, arms flailing a little as she tries to find her balance.
“Gotcha,” I say, grabbing her firmly by the waist before she can go down. She laughs silently, eyes shining.
“Alright, it’s harder than it looks, but I love it, really.” Her cheeks are flushed from the cold, and I struggle watching her fingers turn red from the Seattle winter.
“You could get hurt,” I mutter, tightening my grip, steering us slowly away from a group of kids whizzing past.
She looks up at me, steady and sure. “No, because you’re here,” she signs, taking my heart and folding it into her pocket.
