Chapter 2
Nia
“Dada, dada, dada,” my one year old, Priya, says over and over again. She kicks her legs as I tape her fresh diaper together. Once she sits up, she smiles at me, showing off her four teeth—two on top and two on the bottom.
Unlike my five-year-old son, this one looks just like me, but with her daddy’s nose. She coos, grabs a chunk of my hair, and pulls.
“Ouch,” I say, and she laughs. Once I put the yellow footie onesie on, I put her in the crib, run to the adjoining bathroom, and wash my hands.
She’s standing in the crib and holding the rails when I return. “Dada, dada, dada,” she says again.
“Sure. I do all the work, and you ask for him.”
She laughs as if she understands me and raises both hands for me to lift her out of the crib .
This is not your typical nursery. Our daughter’s room was designed by an exclusive interior designer, per her daddy’s request. We went all out, and I let him have his way. Whatever he wanted in this nursery, no matter how ostentatious, I let him have his way.
I know he was making up for missing out on the first three years of Carter’s life. I don’t know if it was fate, but he learned that he had a son in the most random way. It was entirely accidental, but I was eventually convinced we were meant to be back in each other’s orbit.
All that time apart, I thought he knew and chose not to be a part of our lives, but that could not have been further from the truth. We were both manipulated and lied to which led to nothing but anger and bitter arguments when he confronted me and accused me of keeping his son from him.
Our road back to each other was fraught with accusations, finger-pointing, anger, and words so sharp, they drew blood. Yet, in all of the ugliness, I could never forget the beautiful year we spent together before we were torn apart. The man who adored me, put me on a pedestal, and did everything in his power to make me happy couldn’t have been just a mirage.
I spent years trying to forget him. There were chunks of time when I was successful. As a single mother, I had to focus on my son. I spent countless nights thinking of the future when Carter would be old enough to ask about his father. I lost sleep as I thought of ways to explain who his father was and the reasons he was not in his life. I imagined a world where my son would find his father only to be rejected to his face. I created all sorts of scenarios, but nothing I had imagined had come close to the truth.
Compared to how easy our relationship was the first time, it was the opposite when he barged back into my life. We did not make things easy on each other. He resented me for the time he missed, and I resented him for the same reason. Except I didn’t keep him from his son, and there’s no way he would have missed a single moment of my pregnancy or Carter’s life.
After all the uncertainty, the angry words, and the fighting, he was still the same man I fell in love with. Unfortunately for us both, we never told each other how we felt. I was intimidated by his wealth and scared he didn’t feel the same way. He was waiting for the perfect time to say it, but it never happened.
“Come on, Princess P,” I say, using the nickname my parents gave my daughter. “Let’s go downstairs and wait for your daddy and big brother.” As the first granddaughter, she certainly is the princess in our family. As my husband’s first daughter, she will forever be his baby doll. “They should be back soon.”
I leave the nursery, which is bigger than my first apartment, and go down the hall. The house is so large it took me a few days to learn the layout. Like everything my husband does, it’s over the top, but I won’t ask him to be anyone other than who he is.
As a girl with solid middle-class parents—a detective father, and a mother who works for the public library—I never dreamed of a life with unlimited money and luxury like the one I live now. I never wanted it because I had everything I needed growing up. I had a happy home and the love of my immediate and extended family. I might not have been rich, but I had it all.
Now, I live a life filled with personal security, drivers, nannies, and private planes. Not only do we employ several housekeepers, but there’s also a house manager who oversees her staff. I spend much of my time giving away money through charitable works. Just my last name can get me in any door anywhere. I never aspired to have or do any of those things, but somehow this life found me. It’s part of the Paradise package, and despite doing everything I could to reject my husband at first, I embrace everything about him now.
We take the back staircase that leads to the kitchen that is worthy of being on the front page of Architectural Digest. A European designer designed it, boasting that only six of these kitchens exist. Drake had marble flown in from overseas. There’s a chandelier made of Swarovski crystals, and a wine climate cabinet. Since my husband likes to cook, the kitchen is also commercial-grade.
Just as I reach the fridge, he enters through the garage with Carter behind him. Our poodle, Pixie, runs to the other side of the kitchen and wags her tail by his bowl.
“That dog is so spoiled,” Drake says as he removes Carter’s jacket.
This is their weekend routine. They get up early and walk Pixie together. Then Drake comes home and complains about how spoiled the dog is even though he’s the one who spoils everyone under this roof. The weekends are special because they belong to us. During the week, there’s no shortage of staff in this house. There’s always someone here, but not on the weekends. Unless we’re hosting or throwing a party, it's only the four of us and the pets, and that’s the way we want it.
I go to my husband and kiss him.
“Dada!” Priya says. She extends both arms to him, but I don’t let her go yet. Not until he takes off his coat and washes his hands.
“My baby doll,” he says once his hands are clean. He blows a raspberry on her chubby cheeks. She laughs like it’s the funniest thing on earth, as if he doesn’t do this at least half a dozen times each day.
While he gives her his undivided attention, I do my job: filling Pixie’s bowl with the gourmet, organic dog food that my husband orders for her. Once Pixie is eating happily, I put food in our cat’s bowl, and right on cue, Daddy Cat strolls into the kitchen without a care in the world.
“How did a rich boy like you end up with a job where he picks up dog poop on the weekends?” I joke to my husband.
I reach for Priya, and he gives her one last kiss before he hands her to me.
“I must have taken a right turn somewhere to end up in this life.” He gestures around the kitchen and at me. “Not to mention my other job. Short order cook.” He slaps my behind and retrieves his apron from the walk-in pantry. The apron is a Father’s Day gift from Carter and Priya. It says ‘We love our daddy,’ and it’s designed with pictures of both kids. After he received it, he had a matching chef’s hat made, which he puts on his head now.
“That’s what this fancy kitchen is for. You’ve come a long way, Paradise. Remember when you had to cook in my small galley kitchen.”
The first time he came to my tiny apartment all those years ago, he cooked me dinner on a rainy Friday night. I was his dessert, and he didn’t leave my apartment again until it was time to go to work on Monday morning.
“One of the best memories of my life,” he says. “And what would my baby girl like for breakfast this morning?” He puts his hand on my stomach. “Any cravings yet?”
“You know that’s months away, but I’d like a breakfast sandwich with extra avocado slices, just like you used to make for me.” I lean against the counter, and he does the same until our lips touch.
“Daddy, can I have French toast, fruit salad, bacon, and eggs?” Carter asks. “And chocolate milk. ”
“Dada,” Priya says as she claps her hands and bounces in my arms.
“I think she wants that too,” I joke to Drake.
Priya will want whatever Carter has, and my son will gladly give his little sister everything.
“Coming right up, Son. Go wash your hands so you can help me.” Carter goes to the sink my husband had made just for him, gets on his stepstool, and washes his hands. When he’s done, he drags the stool to the kitchen island. My son then gets his own cutting board and kid-friendly knives.
Drake calls out items, and Carter runs to the fridge to find them. While they do that, I put Priya down and make a mimosa for my husband before grabbing a bottle of sparkling water for myself. I stick a straw in his and hold it to his lips. He sips while he whisks eggs in a bowl.
“Good job, Son,” Drake says to Carter, who is cutting strawberries for his fruit salad. “He’s going to get a girl with his cooking skills. Just like his daddy got his mommy.” He winks at me.
“Stop flirting and start cooking. We’re hungry,” I admonish as I walk to him, take his hand, and put it on my stomach. He pats it and bends down to kiss me.
I point at his bowl, and he resumes his whisking. I remain next to him and wrap my arms around him. Priya waddles over and wraps herself around one of her daddy’s legs. He looks at our son, our daughter, and me before whispering, “Do you know what this is? It’s almost paradise.”