As always, whenever he entered this room, his gaze landed on the single framed photo on the wall near the door, the only space not covered by a bookshelf. It must’ve been taken when he was about one. His mom held him, and his parents were both resting their heads against his, wearing matching doting smiles.
After his mom left, this photo had given him hope: that she’d come back, that she still loved him despite her absence, that his dad actually cared. But as the years went by, she never returned and his father grew more taciturn, leaving him to resent the faux image of a happy family.
However, seeing the photo now made a tiny bud of hope unfurl in his chest. Maybe he could be a good dad, one who looked at his kid like that until he was old?
Buoyed by an uncharacteristic surge of nostalgia, he headed for the one place he might find some of his baby things: the attic.
He’d loved exploring it as a kid. Not that it was an attic per se, more a small room tucked into the front of the house on the second story, with a pitched roof and creaky floorboards. It had been his go-to place to hide away and shut out the world, where he’d immerse himself in a book to escape.
All his mom’s stuff was in there, in boxes. Clothes and trinkets mostly, stuff he always wondered why his dad never got rid of. Then again, all his childhood stuff was up there too, so perhaps Garth compartmentalized belongings like he did his family, and once they’d left, he stored everything in boxes and tucked it away. Out of sight, out of mind.
Rory took the stairs two at a time like he always did. He doubted Samira would want any of his old baby stuff, but it would be nice to give her something of his by way of an apology.
When he reached the attic, he jiggled the door handle and leaned his weight against the door. It always stuck a little, and after two good heaves it opened. The place was surprising clean, meaning one of the staff came up here to dust occasionally.
Ignoring the boxes of his mom’s stuff like he used to—seeing them stacked in the far corner always made him forlorn—he headed for the opposite wall, where his stuff was neatly categorized: toys, clothes, miscellaneous, baby.
He reached for the baby box and unfolded the flaps. He’d never looked in this box because it had been irrelevant when he’d been older; the box labeled toys held more appeal. The box itself was surprisingly light, so he didn’t expect it to contain much.
As he pushed the flaps back and glanced inside, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. No first tooth or first lock of hair, thank goodness—that kind of stuff creeped him out—but a few random items. A bib that appeared to be hand stitched with a giraffe on the front, a strand of colorful plastic circles interlinked, an ornate tarnished silver rattle, and a baby book from a health center.
The rattle could be polished and would make a nice gift for his own kid, so he slipped it into his pocket. Out of curiosity, he picked up the book and flipped it open, expecting to see the usual dates for vaccinations and milestones. However, as he flicked the first few pages, his glance landed on medical history, and what he discovered blew his mind.
Under relevant parental history, he saw “speech impediment: stutter” next to his mom’s name.
He stared at that one word, “stutter,” for a long time, not knowing what to feel. He could never resent his mom—for leaving him with a tyrant, maybe, but not for this. Medical researchers probably hadn’t known back then that stuttering could be hereditary, so he couldn’t blame her.
But learning the truth vindicated his decision in not wanting a child. He knew the odds of passing it on, so why would he inflict his stammer on a child of his?
He couldn’t fathom why his father had never told him. Then again, Garth never mentioned her. It was as if Rory’s mom had never existed, apart from that one photo in his den, the only one in the entire house.
Slamming the book shut, he shoved it back in the box and refolded the flaps to secure it. The rattle bumped his hip as he replaced the box, and for one second, he contemplated putting it back.
He was torn between wanting to support Samira and tell her the truth about why the thought of bringing a child into the world terrified him.
The thing was, their child could be completely fine. So why would he spoil this special time for her because of his fears?
He shouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He’d clean the rattle and present it to her as a show of support. He’d apologize, and he’d be there for her.
She deserved nothing less.
Thirty-Two
Pia didn’t come into work for two days, and she hadn’t answered any of Samira’s calls. If Samira hadn’t already been battling the occasional wave of nausea, she’d be feeling sick to her stomach anyway. But she wouldn’t hound Pia. She’d give her another day or two, and if she still ignored her, she’d enlist the help of her mom. Which meant she had to tell Kushi the big news.
Samira had contemplated taking her mom out for dinner—less chance of an overreaction—but it wasn’t fair. Of course Kushi would be shocked, and with her mom prone to theatrics—she’d practically fainted when she’d heard the news of Avi’s infidelity and their resultant separation—she’d want to do it in the privacy of her home, not visible to curious eyes.
As Samira let herself in, the tantalizing aroma of rasam and fried okra filled her nose. It had been her favorite comfort meal as a kid, the simplicity of spice-flavored boiled water poured over steamed rice with a side of okra. Fitting, that her mom was cooking it tonight. She had a feeling she’d need all the comfort she could get after the big reveal.
“Hi, Mom,” she said, entering the kitchen and inhaling. “That smells so good.”
Kushi glanced up from the stove, tilting her head to receive a kiss on the cheek. “You sounded stressed on the phone, so I made your favorite.”
“Everything you cook is my favorite.” Samira wrapped her arms around her mom from behind and gave her a brief hug. “I’ve missed your cooking.”
“You should come home more often.”
Samira accepted the chastisement and grabbed cutlery to set the table. “How’s Sindhu?”
She felt a little guilty for using a roundabout way to pry, but she couldn’t ask how Pia was, considering they worked together and her mom would instantly know something was wrong.
“She’s almost as bad as you. I never see her.” Kushi turned off the stove and removed the lids. “But I understand. She leads a very hectic life, a lot more social than me. She’s on this committee and that, always buzzing around like a busy bee.”
It shamed Samira she didn’t know this. She’d envisaged the two sisters being very close, considering both their husbands had died years earlier and they had no other family apart from their daughters. At least Sindhu had Pia living in the same city and Samira knew she played the dutiful daughter.