CHAPTER 5
ROXANNE
My heart was beating like a drum.
Not the kind that marched. The kind that trembled.
I stepped into my hotel room and let the door click shut behind me. For a moment, I just stood there still, breath shallow, the scent of Marcello clinging to my skin like a secret.
I peeled off my clothes slowly. Each layer felt heavier than it should have. My blouse. My bra. My trousers. I let them fall to the floor like offerings. Then I stood in front of the mirror naked.
My body was soft full. Some days I’d hated it, but tonight, it felt like armour.
My breasts were round and heavy, slightly uneven.
My hips, wide and generous, the kind that had carried life.
My thighs—strong, dimpled, real. They’d carried me through heartbreak, through labour, through years of pretending I didn’t ache.
A faint appendicitis scar curved along my lower abdomen, pale and stubborn.
I traced it with my finger, then let my hand drift upward, imagining his touch, cupping my breast.
The way his eyes had lingered. The way my body had responded when he pulled me close. I didn’t hide the flaws. I didn’t need to.
Tonight, I felt beautiful. I sank into the tub, the water warm and scented with bergamot and cedar. My eyes shut, head tilting back.
The dinner replayed in fragments—his voice, his gaze, the way he’d pulled me close when danger brushed past us. The way I’d melted into him like I belonged there. Just ask my hand sunk below the water, I heard a soft click. I didn’t flinch. I already knew who it was.
But still my pulse jumped—with expectation I didn’t want to name. Ritu barged into the bathroom, wrapped in a hotel robe, slippers flapping, a lollipop tucked between her lips like she’d walked out of a rom-com.
“Tell me,” she said, wide-eyed, voice muffled around the candy. “Spill. Now. Before I combust.”
I opened my eyes slowly, the steam curling around my face like a veil.
I smiled, telling her how the evening unfolded.
She listened, grinning ear to ear, her eyes wide with delight and disbelief.
I stepped out of the tub, wrapping myself in a bathrobe.
Ritu trailed behind me into the room, still buzzing.
“I’m going to Florence,” I said, almost to myself.
Saying it out loud made it real yet dangerous.
“You mentioned that earlier,” she replied, confused.
“With him,” I responded.
She gasped, the lollipop clattering into her palm.
“Whaaaaat?”
I didn’t answer. I just looked at her.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “I mean, it was fun and games with the flirting and dinner. And now you’re heading to a city. With a complete stranger. Though a handsome one.”
Her voice was almost screaming.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Truth be told, for the first time in my life, I don’t know. I’m not leading. I’m just… following.”
And it felt terrifying. And thrilling. Like I’d stepped off the edge and was still waiting to land.
“But you’re letting a man follow you to Florence. You showed him your itinerary, for God’s sake.”
“I know. Something about him just let me agree. Maybe it’s the thrill I need. To get some spice into my boring life.”
She stared at me, then softened.
“You’re treading dangerous waters, girl.”
Dangerous, yes. But it was the first thing in months that felt alive.
I stayed silent. My mind drifted to my daughter. Her little voice. Her little hands. My whole world.
“I’m just a phone call away,” Ritu said, stepping closer, embracing me in a sisterly hug.
“You message me your location. Always. I love you. You know that.”
“I know,” I whispered.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone.
After Ritu left, the room fell into silence. I sat on the edge of the bed, still in my bathrobe, hair damp, skin still warm from the bath. My phone lay face down on the nightstand. I stared at it for a long time before picking it up.
It was 8 in Italy—just in time to catch her before bedtime. I dialled. Her voice came through like sunlight.
“Mummy!”
My heart clenched. Nothing in the world sounded like her.
My throat tightened.
“Hi, baby.”
“I missed you today. Did you eat? Did you see Vaibhav uncle’s lights?”
I smiled, but it hurt.
“I did. And I thought of you.”
She giggled. “Did you take pictures?”
“I did. I’ll send them to granny.”
There was a pause. Then her voice dropped, quieter.
“Are you coming back soon?”
Her voice always found the cracks in me.
I swallowed hard. “I will. Just a few more days.”
She didn’t say anything but I could hear her breathing. I could hear her heart. And mine broke.
I pressed my hand to my chest, as if I could hold the pieces together.
I wanted to tell her everything. That I hated leaving her. That I felt like I was failing her. That every time I laughed or felt something stir inside me, I thought of her—alone, waiting, wondering.
I wanted to tell her that being a mother meant splitting yourself into pieces and handing them out like candy.
That I hadn’t felt whole in years. That I was tired of being the strong one. The planner. The provider. The woman who paid the bills and packed the lunches and smiled through the silence.
I wanted to tell her that I loved her more than anything. More than my work. More than life itself. But I didn’t. She was too little and I was too broken.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you more,” she said.
I closed my eyes. Let the tears fall quietly.
After the call, I lay back on the bed, towel still wrapped around me.
The ache in my chest was sharp. The kind you carry quietly because saying it out loud feels like failure.
The ache of every mother who’s ever wanted to be two places at once.
The ache of every woman who’s ever wanted to be more than just someone’s wife, someone’s mother, someone’s anchor.
I thought of my husband. How he never planned a thing.
How I’d booked every dinner, every trip, every anniversary. How he’d show up, half-present, half-elsewhere. Always on his phone. How I’d paid the bills and the emotional tax. I had spent years filling in the blanks he left behind.
And I thought of Marcello. How he’d looked at me with restraint. How he hadn’t asked me to be anything but myself. He looked at me like he was trying to read me, understand me, and want to want me.
It was terrifying—being seen without being needed. And I hated that it felt good. I hated that I wanted more.
But I also knew deep down that wanting didn’t make me a bad mother. It didn’t make me selfish. Or careless.
It just made me human.