Dad’s droning lectures—whether given in a calm demeanor or in frustrated screams—have etched his traditional values straight into my skull. He and his sister Anjali were the only ones from their family who immigrated to Canada for work, which means there’s no one else to inherit our culture. The last thing he wants is for his values to die with him.
And if there’s one thing he taught me above all else, it’s to respect—no, honour—my mother. I owe her my life, and given her health over the last couple more years, there’s no limit to what I should be doing to uphold my duty to her.
I spent so long living six hours away from my parents, and I still haven’t grown accustomed to our new proximity. Of courseit’s natural for me to rush to their aid whenever something comes up. It was so much easier to give Rachel everything she deserves when my other responsibilities lay so far away.
But I can’t let myself forget that Rachel won’t understand. Not after what her parents did. My stomach still roils at the thought of how she was robbed of the solid parental presence that I’ve come to rely on.
And either way… I have a responsibility to care for my wife just as much as I have a responsibility to care for my parents.
A bead of sweat drips down my forehead as I finally finish prepping theAloo Parathafor cooking. It’s still pitch black when I look outside. I’ve got time.
I pan-fry theparathaone by one. The aroma of spices and bread fills the air, and I smile to myself, knowing that nobody can get up in a bad mood when it smells this good in your home. While one of theparathacooks, I start a pot of coffee, adding to the scrumptious aroma in the kitchen.
I leave most of theparathain the oven to keep them warm for me and the boys, then place two of them on a plate for Rachel. I pour her a cup of coffee in her favourite mug. I got this mug for her for our anniversary two years ago. It says:
I’m a
Farmacist
Pharmasist
Pharmasyst
I sell drugs
She adores it, even if Cayce and Corey can now read and have started to ask what it means.
Carefully, while being mindful of my typically clumsy demeanor, I carry the plate and the mug toward our bedroom. I have to set the mug down on the hardwood floor to free my hand and open the door, and in doing so, I spill a few scalding drops on my hand and have to bite back a yelp.
When I finally manage to cross the door, both items in my hands, my gaze falls to my sleeping wife. She’s sprawled across the bed with her arms above her head, her delicate chestnut hair fanned across her pillow.
A pang flares in my chest. She’s even more beautiful than the first moment I laid eyes on her. And I love her so much that it hurts.
She’s my angel.
Slowly, so as not to wake her yet, I deposit the plate and the mug on her nightstand, then walk around the bed to the left side—my side—and crawl into the blankets next to her. I wrap an arm around her chest and slide in close.
Despite our size difference, her small warm body fits perfectly into mine, as it always has. I nuzzle into her neck and inhale her sweet strawberry scent.
I’m exactly where I should be.
The problem is, I haven’t been here enough as of late.
God, I miss her.
Rachel stirs at the touch, emitting a soft whimper that sends a shock of arousal directly down my spine. I desperately wrestle against my inner urges to make this moment about more than simply being close to her. It takes everything in me to resist, especially when she slides in closer and wraps one leg over my hips.
She’s warm, and soft, and I know all too well how good it feels to have my hands all over her, to be inside her, to watch her writhe and gasp above me.
Fourteen years haven’t doused the fire of my desire for her.
It has only fanned its flames.
“Mmm?” she whispers, her eyes still closed as I wrap my arms around her back and revel in the sensation of her lips against my chest.
I kiss her forehead with a smile. “Good morning, love. I made you breakfast.”
She leans her head back and sniffs. “I can smell it. Oh my God.” She sighs and nuzzles her head against my chest.
