Julianna and that young man, Lian, came out of the clinic room, engrossed in a lively conversation about the baby's due date and its future astrological sign. I trailed behind them at a safe distance, my mask covering most of my face and concealing any emotion.
Lian looked at Julianna with concern. "Do you think Ahmad would be upset if he found out?"
Julianna dismissed the thought with a wave. "It’s no big deal. If it becomes obvious, I'll just go abroad to have the baby." She paused, then added, "The main thing is your happiness. As long as you're happy, I'll do anything."
She used to say things like this to me. In those days, her eyes were only for me, and every expression seemed so full of life. But now, that light was directed at someone else, and it was painfully bright.
A gust of wind blew a piece of paper to my feet. I bent down to pick it up—it was Julianna's ultrasound report, eight weeks pregnant. Two months. Our so-called "sexless" life had dragged on for three years.
I had been constantly giving in, continuously compromising, just to keep this already fragile marriage from completely falling apart. The one line I drew was that she wouldn’t have a child with another man. She promised, yet here we are.
Julianna, none of your promises ever meant anything.
When I got home, they were comfortably lounging on the couch, as though I wasn’t even there. Julianna glanced at me with a note of command in her voice, "Lian wants beef stew, and I want grilled fish."
"You came home late today, so get a move on with it."
Lian kissed her cheek, then looked at me and said, “Sorry for the trouble, Ahmad.”
He spoke as though I were a servant in my own home.
Ignoring them, I went straight to my room. Julianna followed, a note of confusion in her voice. “What’s wrong with you? Are you upset because you think I forgot our wedding anniversary?”
She tossed a beautifully wrapped box at me. “Here, I've got this gift ready, carefully chosen for you.”
I opened the box. Inside was a watch, identical to the one from last year.
In the past, she would make gifts by hand or choose something with real meaning as a surprise for every anniversary. Now, it’s just a formality, a routine.
Does remembering an anniversary matter?
Does buying a gift matter?
If the love is gone, even if these details are attended to, they feel utterly hollow.
