5. Dev
five
dev
It’s My Only Wish
I pinch the bridge of my nose in the back of my chauffeured car as the familiar streets to my parents’ home float by. The morning’s shareholders’ meeting replays in my mind. It started off as more of a scathing critique of our disappointing quarterly earnings than a discussion in any way.
Thankfully, I managed to navigate the barrage of questions by highlighting our additional investments into research and development of driverless technology, justifying the less-than-stellar results and subsequently, easing some of the tension. Still, it wasn’t the most uplifting news to deliver.
The car comes to a stop, and Ralph, our family’s chauffeur of nearly twenty years, steps out to open my door, nodding as I exit. His usually stoic expression has a hint of humor in it today. “A hat today, sir?”
Suppressing my groan, I trudge toward the house, clutching the Taro milk tea with boba pearls in my grasp. “Don’t ask.”
Taking a moment to breathe in the warm September air, I mentally prepare myself for a conversation with my dad. He may have taken the next few months—the remaining time she has left on this earth—to spend with his terminally-ill wife of thirty-five years, but I could bet my entire savings account that he hadn’t missed tuning into our shareholders’ meeting. And I’d double down on that bet that I won’t be getting any words of praise from him about how things unfolded, either.
But he’s not the reason I’m here, nor is he the reason I feel like I’m suffocating even in the open air.
I’m here for the one woman, besides my little sister, who I love immeasurably and beyond words—my mother.
A woman I would trade places with in a heartbeat if I could.
Stepping into the spacious foyer, I find Deena walking back inside from Mom’s rose garden, wearing a pair of long-sleeved pajamas adorned with a boba tea graphic. It’s my ten-year-old sister’s latest obsession and her most recent personality. There isn’t a boba tea shop in town she hasn’t visited or a flavor she hasn’t tried.
Her face lights up, her long dark brown hair flying behind her as she rushes toward me. “Is that for me?”
I fake a scoff, bringing the cup closer to me. “No, it’s for me, hence why I have it.”
Her fists find her small hips. “You don’t even like boba. You said it felt like you were drinking fish eggs. Also, no one uses ‘hence’ anymore.”
“Firstly, I happen to love drinking fish eggs, and secondly, ‘hence’ is a fantastic word that deserves a comeback.”
She shakes her head in exasperation, grabbing the cup and taking a long sip. “Ahh! Just what I needed this morning.” Glancing over her shoulder, she eyes the backdoor. “You’re not telling Mom, are you? You know how she gets about me having so much sugar.”
I pretend to think about it, rubbing my chin while avoiding the way my throat constricts.
Since Mom’s diagnosis a few months ago, she’s begged us to all act as normal as possible. And though Deena’s sugar consumption should be the least of her concerns, I wouldn’t put it past Mom to lecture her about it.
“Well, since I didn’t even get a hug or a ‘you’re the best brother in the world,’ I’m sort of tempted to tell her . . .”
Deena wraps her thin arms around me, looking up with a grin, her eyes the same shade of brown as mine. “You’re the best brother in the world.”
“Now I just feel like you’re saying it because I asked you to say it.”
“Ugh, Dev!” she whines.
Grinning, I ruffle her unruly hair. “Fine. You’re safe for now.”
She releases me, eyeing my head. “What’s with the cap? You never wear caps, but now I can see why. Your head looks like it’s two sizes too big for your body.”
I shoot her a mock glare, reaching for her drink. “Gimme that back.”
“No!” Deena giggles, darting away from my reach and rushing up the staircase. “See ya later, Mr. Potato Head. Thanks for the boba!”
My chuckle fades as I fix my gaze on the backdoor.
Taking deliberate steps, I exit through the door to find Mom sitting on a chair, draped with a woven blanket, watching one of her hummingbird feeders in the distance. A tiny bird revs its wings, sipping nectar as it hovers in the air.
Mom’s hair has started to grow back after the rounds of chemo, but it’s still sparse, her eyes more sunken with each passing day.
But before I can make my way to her, the door behind me creaks open and Dad slips out, a tray in hand with two cups of steaming tea. He’s taken little help from the staff during the day, insisting on being the one to take care of Mom as much as possible.
“Dad.” I offer a tight smile to the man who bears a striking resemblance to me, despite our contrasting skin tones and eye color. His deep tan and onyx-colored eyes to my sun-kissed complexion and brown eyes. Neither Deena nor I inherited our mother’s pale blue eyes or blonde hair.
Dad’s eyes flick to the top of my head. “I see you’re really set on shaking up the culture of the company I built. In just a short time as CEO, you’ve not only managed to reverse our profits, but decided it’s no longer a priority to dress appropriately. You asked the senior leadership team to wear hats at our quarterly shareholders’ meeting.”
Yup, he definitely tuned in.
I hold back a bitter chuckle. How foolish of me to have expected a decent greeting for once. Perhaps a, “Hey, son, how are you? That was a tough meeting, but you seemed prepared.” No, that would be asking too much.
Slipping my hands into my pockets, I square my shoulders. “We handed out hats with our company logo to everyone to lighten the mood.”
Dad gives me a reproachful smirk. “And what did that accomplish? Empathy for our lackluster results? Did share prices soar because of it?”
My jaw clenches, a headache thrumming in my temples. I have half a mind to tell him that share prices would have plummeted if shareholders saw the CEO resembling Vanilla Ice under this hat, but I leave that bit to myself.
And speaking of headaches, my mind drifts to the woman who triggered mine this morning.
She’s also the reason I hastily threw on a hat right before the meeting, given I had little time for another haircut. And since I didn’t want to be the only one wearing a hat, I asked the entire leadership team to do so as well.
“You know as well as I do that you left when the economy was booming. You were part of the decision to expand into new markets and increase R we both stopped fighting for us. Our physical distance had only widened the emotional chasm between us. I think it was in those times of loneliness that Camila turned to her faith.
Still, that Camila would literally go and become a nun after being with me for five years? That I hadn’t seen coming.
She was always a compassionate, service-minded person—in fact, that quality had captivated me all those years ago. Her kindness and generosity were a direct contrast to the type of people I was surrounded by daily, and I found myself drawn to her sweetness. But despite those things, there was always something missing between us, an intense magnetism that keeps two people intertwined.
Something akin to the love my parents still share.
I thought we could move past it, that maybe we didn’t even need it. We were both decent people who cared for one another; what more could anyone need? But now that I’ve had time to reflect on our relationship, I realize how important that missing connection, that spark, was.
A spark I’ve never felt with anyone . . . until this morning.
I brush the thought aside as soon as it surfaces, reassuring myself that the only “spark” I felt with the eccentric woman was the zing of her clippers getting a little too cozy with my scalp.
“Anyway, that wasn’t the point,” Mom says, shaking her head.
“Then what was the point?” I ask.
“I know you can’t give it to me, Dev, and I want you to know I don’t blame you. Honestly, it just slipped out and . . .”
“What is it?” I urge. “Tell me.”
She takes a breath as if gathering her resolve. “I wish I could see you get married.”
My heart comes to an abrupt stop.
That was definitely not what I was expecting her to say.
Married? She wants to see me get married? How? When? To whom?
I know I just told her I’d do anything to fulfill her wish, but . . . get married ?
She must see the blood drain from my face because she places a hand on my cheek. “Sweetheart, it’s just a wish. People often die with unfulfilled wishes. You don’t owe me anything. You already have so much on your plate, so please,” her voice quivers, regret evident in her expression, “don’t take this to heart, I was just?— ”
“Well, that’s not a lot to ask.” I hear myself saying, like I’m being puppeteered by someone else entirely.
What the fuck are you even saying, Dev? Did those clippers nick your brain?
My mom’s eyes flit between mine in shock. “What?”
I swallow as my mind whirls to come up with something, anything . It’s my dying mother’s last wish. One I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t fulfill. And I told her I would if I could, so even if I have to fly in a mail-order bride to do it, I fucking will, if only to ensure my mother attends my wedding.
“It’s not a lot to ask, Mom. In fact, I’ve been, um, dating someone.”
“What?” both my parents ask aghast at the same time.
“Yeah,” I lie, torn between excitement and guilt. “We’ve kept things private. You remember how overwhelming it was when the media constantly followed Camila and me? Well, I’ve been dating this . . . woman, and we’ve talked about marriage.”
Mom’s face lights up for the first time in a long time, her hand finding her chest. “Oh, Dev! Are you serious?”
My heart hammers as I lean into the fib. “With your health and everything, I hadn’t brought it up, but yeah, I’ve found someone I want to marry, and if your wish is to see us?—”
“It is!” Tears stream down Mom’s face, her shoulders trembling. “It’s my only wish, Dev.”
I steel my nerves, determined to do anything for the woman who’s given me so much. “Then consider it done.”