Every night follows a familiar rhythm.
I put all three of our children to sleep—the eldest, always the most challenging, testing my patience and my tenderness in equal measure. When their world finally quiets down and the house exhales, I return to myself.
I freshen up, just a little—enough to feel nice for you.
I drink far too much water, a habit I keep promising to change. Less water, I had decided. A resolution I smile at, even as I break it again.
Then I settle by the window you built especially for me—the one I asked for when this house was only blueprints. Pods in my ears, my favorite songs begin to play, easing me gently into the night.
Bit by bit, my mind wanders towards my passion—geopolitics.
I try to understand where our country stands, where the countries you follow stand, and how the world keeps shifting while we quietly live our lives within it.
The music keeps playing, and every lyric seems to carry a piece of you. Each song reminds me of a moment, a phase, a feeling—our story unfolding over time. It isn’t small at all. It has been eighteen years since you first said hi, and honestly, I remember little else from before you.
What an incredible journey it has been—with you.
I look outside at the traffic, people rushing home, the city still awake though the hour is late. I find myself curious about how frequently you think of me and how much you yearn to be back home, to enjoy each other's company and share the stories of our day.—without little voices hovering around us.
When you walk in, I switch on the movie lights.
It feels like a fairytale—every single day.
Cinemas—our most cherished and constant discussion.
You love them, and somewhere along the way, you made me love them too. I still marvel at how we share the same opinions on almost everything—except that you think deeply, while I rush ahead. I pretend to hate when you calm me down, but truthfully, I need it.
You talk about what inspires you, what you hope for—for all five of us. You ask me to put my phone aside and really listen, as you get immersed in the movie, in the moment, in us.
I often wish that the time between your coming home and our going to bed had a clock of its own—one that we controlled.
But reality calls.
We have three beautiful miracles to care for.
I often lose myself in the joy of watching you play with them, and in that moment, I know—you are worth every sacrifice.
As I write this, there are twenty more minutes before you come home.
Soon, I will see you through that same beautiful window, fulfilling its purpose yet again.
"being my platform to write and wonder, being a bridge between us—
when we look and smile at each other"'
P.S- Dear 'B', at the heart of all this waiting, all these rituals, is love—quiet, unwavering, and deeply rooted. I love you in ways that have grown steadier with time, less loud but more certain. And I love our children with a devotion that reshaped me entirely. This life—our evenings, our conversations, the chaos and calm we share—is what I live for and what I choose every single day. In loving you and them, I have found my truest sense of purpose and my most enduring joy.
The Geography of home and the Politics of time!