It’s a gross mischaracterisation. “It was fine,” I dismiss. “A little rundown, but nothing awful.”
He takes a sip of his wine.
I let it go.
“It was good to see him home again. It made me feel…certain…that this was all worth it.”
A muscle jerks low in his jaw. “I’m glad.”
It sounds as though my father’s happiness is the only consideration, as though there is no value in our marriage besides that.
“You don’t mind?”
“That you saw your father? I presumed you would.”
“I know, it’s just…” How can I express this? Like I’ve betrayed Zahir or something. I shake my head, pulling my hair over one shoulder. “It doesn’t matter.”
His eyes chase my hair and desire licks in the pit of my stomach. He’s obsessed with my hair. It’s colour and length, the golden highlights that have been drawn out by the Qabidi sun.
“See him as often as you want, little one. Just be careful.”
I blink at him. “You still don’t trust me?”
“I trust you.”
I sigh. “But not my father?”
He reaches across the table. “Treat him with caution.”
* * *
I walk this tightrope for another week. Three times I visit my father and after each visit, I feel an overwhelming sense of guilt, as though the more time I spend with dad, the more I’m wronging Zahir. But it’s nice to be home again. In a place that has so many happy memories for me – memories of mum, dad, our family, my childhood, such a simple, uncomplicated time. To see dad surrounded by old friends. We do crosswords together in the mornings, then eat lunch, before I return to the palace. I used to think of the palace as a gilded cage and now it’s, simply, home.
Perhaps the old adage of home being where the heart is rings true? Because my heart is in the palace, or wherever Zahir happens to be.
I love him.
I can’t fight it any longer.
I know it’s foolish and that he’ll likely never feel that for me, and yet it’s buried in my chest nonetheless.
On the same day I force myself to accept that reality, I get confirmation that I’m not pregnant with his baby, and grief perforates my being.
I find it hard to look at him.
“I thought I might go and stay with dad tonight,” I say, not wantin
g to show him my upset, nor explain the rationale behind it.
I can see he doesn’t like the idea, but he dips his head. “Fine. Take care.”
It’s what he says whenever I go. Take care. As though there is some inherent risk in spending time with my own father.
Dad and I sort through some boxes, old albums filled with mum’s photos. He’d tried so hard to have these sent to the states but the Qabidi government wouldn’t cooperate – they would send nothing to him from home. I’m strangely glad now – glad to have this treasure trove of memories to go through together.
I decide to stay a second night, the knowledge that Zahir and my efforts to conceive haven’t been successful too raw to discuss with my husband. I know I’m being a coward.
I miss you being here.