They were spoken like a confession he had once tried to deny — and now fully accepted.
My chest tightened.
We stayed on the waterfront boulder long after the sky darkened into indigo and the first stars emerged.
Just us.
Despite how much our marriage had grown, despite the intimacy we had built, there were parts of him I still didn’t know.
He had hidden everything about his family.
I knew nothing of his father.
Nothing of his mother.
Nothing of the relatives tied to his bloodline.
It was as if my husband had erased his past completely — like he had chosen to become a man without roots.
Almost like a ghost.
The only trace of his family I had ever heard of was his sister... and she was already gone.
“When I was ten,” he began quietly, “I used to sneak into my uncle’s orchard and steal figs. My cousin would act as lookout while I climbed the tree. If we got caught, my uncle would threaten to make us work the fields all day.”
I smiled.
“Rebel.”
He shrugged slightly.
“Even then.”
His fingers traced slow circles against my thigh.
“I learned to shoot when I was eleven. My uncle put a rifle in my hands and told me, ‘Respect the weapon or it will disrespect you.’ I didn’t understand it at the time — but now I do.”
His gaze drifted toward the horizon.
I leaned my head against his shoulder.
“I used to dream about New York,” I admitted quietly.
He glanced at me — listening.
A soft hum left his throat.
“But now...” I continued, my voice gentler, more certain. “Now I just want to be with my family. With you. With Daphne. With Yannis. With the chaos... and the quiet moments like this.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
He kissed my forehead — slow, lingering.
After a while, exhaustion crept over me like a gentle tide.
I yawned, stretching lazily against him.
“I’m tired.”
