Today, I came back from work, and my son says, “Mom said you’re not my father and she’s leaving us.”
I’m calling my wife, but she’s unavailable. I’m sitting almost in tears.
Suddenly, my wife returns. It turns out…
…it was all a misunderstanding. At least, that’s what she claimed.
She stood at the door, looking exhausted. Her eyes were red like she had been crying too. My heart was pounding like a drum in my chest. I didn’t know whether to yell or hug her.
Nira?” I asked, my voice trembling.
She sighed and set her purse down. “Caleb misunderstood. I was on the phone with my sister. We were arguing… I said something I shouldn’t have, and he overheard.”
I frowned. “What exactly did you say?”
She hesitated for a moment too long. “I said… ‘Sometimes I feel like he’s not even your real father with how distant he’s been lately.’ I didn’t mean it literally, Arvin. I was venting. I was angry.”
My knees went weak, and I sat down on the couch. Caleb, our 6-year-old, was upstairs, probably confused and scared after hearing those words.
“You know how much that hurts, right?” I whispered. “You know how sensitive I am about that.”
Nira nodded, her face pale. “I know. I messed up.”
See, Nira and I had struggled for years to have kids. When Caleb was born, after a lot of medical interventions, it was like a miracle. But deep inside, I always had this tiny fear—irrational or not—that maybe something had gone wrong. That maybe…
No. I shook the thought out of my head.