Iopen the door of the Bentley and step outside into the sun. It’s the start of summer, and all the peonies I brought into our garden five years ago have bloomed again.
Their sweet scent tells me I’m home, and quickens my pace toward the sliding glass door at the back of the house—already open, like we leave it every time it gets warm. The curtains sway lazily with the gentle wind, bringing laughter and voices on its trail.
“Yes, just like that. Now move it a bit from side to side and… That’s it. You did it!” my wife exclaims, followed by the sound of a smooch. I smile and push the soft curtain to the side, leaning against the window frame.
There, at the marbled kitchen island, my wife stands next to our four-year-old son, whose cheeks are almost entirely coveredin flour. Arvin’s big brown eyes—his mother’s eyes—look up at her from his kitchen stool, more questions pouring out of him like a faucet with a broken handle.
I laugh to myself, knowing exactly just how bottomless his curiosity is. I love watching them when they don’t know I’m here.
It always looks like a dream, and it feels that much better when I realize I can step into it and live there forever.
“Why can’t we eat the cookies now?” Arvin mumbles.
“Because they aren’t cooked yet,” Dove explains patiently as she sprinkles chocolate chips on the dough. “And we’re waiting for Daddy to come home so we can surprise him. It was your idea, wasn’t it?”
He nods, retracting his small hand from the cookie tray. His little legs stomp a few times before he reels in his control and picks up a teaspoon instead, fidgeting with it.
“But… but why do we need to cook them?”
Dove wipes her hands on the apron she’s wearing and retrieves a towel to clean our son’s face. Surprisingly, he lets her, probably because he’s more invested in the cookies than not having his face touched. A rare sight, indeed.
“Because cooking makes them soft and yummy, and safe to eat. Will you help me put them in the oven?”
He nods, then climbs down from the stool. Dove’s eyes accidentally slide over to mine, and her face lights up. A soft blush creeps in, adding a touch of warmth to her already radiant features.
Her smile widens as she unwraps the apron, and her wavy hair sways from the movement as she comes toward me. She’s wearing white and pink, and she’s more beautiful than ever. My chest shakes with the force of the love I have for this woman. For our family.
“Liar,” she says, pursing her lips. “You said you’d be back later tonight.”
Arvin sees me, and his face lights up too. “Daddy!”
How the fuck did I get so lucky?
“We can’t eat the cookies because they aren’t cooked yet,” he says, reciting the new lesson he just learned.
He collides with my leg, and I wrap my arm around him, pulling him close. Dove presses her body into mine, and I give her a long kiss, her lips molding to mine and opening up for me.
My wife always gets the first kiss—without her, I wouldn’t have my son. She whimpers, and I release her, though I can barely contain myself. We were apart for an entire week. I had work to do in Canberra, and she had to stay in Washington, meeting with Congress to steer things in the right direction.
The criminal justice reform bill is about to get a much-needed update, and it’s all because of my wife’s efforts at the White House.
I pick Arvin up, kissing the top of his head as I walk into the kitchen to where the cookies lie on the tray. I pick one up with my free hand and pretend to eat it.
“Nooo!” he shouts. “Daddy, it isn’t safe and yummy!”
“Nonsense. It smells so good. Surely it must be.”
I bring it to my mouth once again. He wraps his little hands around my wrist, and pulls it away, sheer determination reading on his face. “Mommy said we have… have to wait.”
Dove sighs from behind us and picks up the dough in my hand.
“Enough, you two.” She huffs a laugh as she puts it back on the tray, then shoves everything in the oven. “They’ll be ready by the time you wake up,” she tells Arvin with a smile.
My gaze shifts from her to Renee, the nanny, who timidly steps into the room.
“Oh, good,” she says, bringing her hands together. “I was just about to take Arvin upstairs for his nap.”
I look at him, expecting a few little protests. He’s a good kid and doesn’t fuss about things too much—but he’s still a toddler, and like all toddlers, he has his moments when he couldn’t care less about what we ask him to do.
