CHAPTER 22
ROXANNE
I sat by the window, watching Sicily shrink beneath the clouds.
My heart was heavy, a pressure sitting square on my ribs. I’d been crying on and off since my breakdown in the car on the way to the airport.
I just stared, replaying every moment—his touch, his silence, his kiss, his rage. My lips still felt the weight of his goodbye.
I wanted to forget. But forgetting him felt like erasing the only time I’d felt alive. I didn’t know what he felt after I said goodbye—was it pain, anger, sadness, betrayal?
I didn’t know if he’d read the letter. Or if it would matter— if he’d care. But I knew I’d told the truth. And that had to be enough.
During the layover in Dubai, the ache sharpened. This was where I first met Marcello—bumped into him, actually. I half-hoped I’d bump into him again.
I took out my phone, hovered over his name, and typed:
Then I deleted it. Because I knew he wouldn’t reply. Because I didn’t deserve to be forgiven. Some truths are meant to be buried, not sent.
Instead, I opened the hidden folder of photos I’d taken—him in Rome, in Sicily, laughing, brooding, sleeping, beautiful.
I stared at them, my thumb grazing the screen until my chest tightened, breath hitching in a shallow stutter.
Marcello would never forgive me. He was too hurt. Too proud. And maybe, I didn’t deserve forgiveness.
When I landed, Kyra was waiting with a bouquet of pink carnations and a grin that could melt stone. She ran into my arms, her voice bright and proud.
“Mumma! You’re finally home! I got these for you!”
I smiled, holding her close, burying my face in her hair. She smelled of oat cream, soft powder, and sun-warmed skin—like innocence bottled in warmth.
“They are beautiful. Just like you. I love them.”
“See, Pappa,” she turned to Vihaan and beamed, “I told you Mummy would love them.”
Vihaan—my husband-stood a few feet behind her, hands in his pockets, watching. He didn’t say much. Just shrugged, a quiet smile tugging at his lips.
I had almost forgotten what he looked like. He was decent-looking—not striking enough to turn heads, but grounded in a way that once felt safe. Before I met him, I was reeling from a long-term relationship that ended in heartbreak.
At that point, Vihaan was the quiet I needed. But by the first year of our marriage, I realised I wanted someone who could stir the storm sometimes. Life had become monotonous. Everything was done because it had to be done.
Kyra wasn’t planned. She happened after a drunken night in Nagpur, during a friend’s wedding—when we finally found time for each other. We made the most of it. And she became our most beautiful accident.
Vihaan gave me an awkward side hug. His touch felt foreign like something I’d outgrown. I wanted to flinch. But I didn’t. Because pretending was easier than explaining.
“Missed you, Roxy.”
I smiled politely as he helped me load my bag into the car. I sat in the front, with Kyra on my lap, chatting away and humming to her favourite songs. She was the reason I kept going.
Throughout my pregnancy, I had doubts—whether I’d be a good mother, whether we had the patience, the money, the strength. Whether my body could carry and deliver a child without breaking.
I worried our relationship wouldn’t survive the shift.
Then came Kyra—my precious. So precious that I thought even my mother was handling her wrong. I became possessive. Protective to the point of paranoia.
Postpartum depression crept in quietly—like fog rolling in at dusk.
I didn’t recognise myself. I felt like a ghost in my own home—a version of myself I didn’t recognise.
I’d stare at Kyra and wonder if she deserved a better version of me.
One that didn’t cry in the shower. One that didn’t feel like she was failing at everything.
Vihaan said he’d take care of everything—finances, me, the house. And he did. But the whole episode changed me. And he didn’t understand. He kept saying I was making excuses. That I needed to snap out of this phase.
But how do you move on from a version of yourself you never asked for? A version of yourself you couldn’t recognise—even in the mirror.
We arrived at Khushnaaz—an old Parsi building nestled in Dadar Parsee Colony.
I lived in a penthouse on the top floor, overlooking one of the five gardens. The building had old bones, weathered walls, creaky lifts, and tenants who’d lived there for decades.
But with my expertise, we restored it—preserving its charm while reinforcing its strength. There was parking on the ground floor, a small garden in the compound, and only two apartments per floor.
Mine was the entire top level. A mix of old Parsi furniture and modern artwork. A perfect balance.
My terrace was my sanctuary—lined with bougainvillaea, shaded by a frangipani tree, and kissed by the breeze. This is where I could breathe. Where silence wasn’t punishment. Where I could cry without being asked why. It was the only place I didn’t feel like a fraud.
Sometimes I worked there. Sometimes I escaped there. It was the only place I felt like myself.
My mother decided to visit and help me unpack.
That evening, I didn’t get a chance to breathe. Kyra filled the house with chatter—stories from school, drawings she’d made, questions about my trip to Italy.
I joked, “I think I left a little bit of my heart there.”
A tightness curled low in my stomach, because I knew exactly where I’d left it. With Marcello.
Vihaan looked up from the dining table, eyes full of questions he didn’t ask.
That night, Kyra curled up beside me in bed, her tiny fingers wrapped around mine. She was my light, my strength. The only part of my life that felt pure. Having her close, breathing in her scent, grounded me.
It was a wise decision to return on a Friday. I had the weekend to recover from jet lag, to be with Kyra, and to avoid Vihaan. I hated using her as an excuse, but I couldn’t bring myself to be alone with him. Not yet.
On Sunday, my mother came to take Kyra to her friend’s birthday. Vihaan took the opportunity. He sat me down at the dining table, his tone rehearsed but trembling.
“I want to try again,” he said. “This time I’ll listen. I promise. Let’s give us a shot. Not for us, but for Kyra.”
I kept fidgeting with my fingers, avoiding eye contact.
“Do you really want her to be one of those kids who says she comes from a broken home?” he asked.
I didn’t respond. He continued, voice rising with frustration.
“I’ve done everything. Provided for you. Let you work. Let you stay with your mom whenever you wanted. Never forced you to live with my folks. I even gave you days off to travel for your project. What more do you want from a husband?”
His words landed like a checklist—cold, transactional. I looked at him, eyes burning.
“That’s your duty, Vihaan. Not a favour. And those weren’t days off. I was building my career—something you insisted I pursue.”
I shot back.
“Every time I try to bring up things that concern me, you gaslight me—make me feel like I’m in the wrong. You belittle me. You make me feel inferior,” I continued.
I could feel the heat rising in my chest. I got up and walked towards the sofa, sitting, clutching a cushion, as if it could shield me from him, from the truth clawing at my chest. From the version of me that had tasted something better and now couldn’t forget.
“Whether it’s not waking up early, or just being who I am—I’m either too fat for you, or not responsible enough, or not serious enough. Nothing I do is ever enough.”
My blood boiled as words spilt out of me, damaging, to a point of no return.
“We haven’t had a decent conversation in years, and it’s been months since we were intimate. Every time I lean in for a kiss, you always say not now. Don’t I have needs too?”
Vihaan fell silent. He walked up to me. Tears began to fall.
“I was never seen,” I croaked. “I never felt seen by you. Not once.”
He crouched down, placing his hands on my knees.
“Tell me what to do,” he sighed. “I promise to give it my best. Let’s give this another chance. Let’s give us a chance.”
He pressed his forehead against mine, and we both cried.
Kyra loved us both. Despite being a four-year-old, she was smart enough to notice the cracks, but kind enough never to take sides.
After much deliberation, I decided to try. Not for Vihaan. For Kyra. To see if things could change so we could have a ‘whole family.’
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about Marcello. That was a secret I would keep for life. A good memory. A beautiful mistake. One I’d carry like a scar beneath my clothes—silent, permanent. One I’d never speak of. Because some loves aren’t meant to be confessed. They’re meant to be mourned.
Swallowed by guilt, I buried my happiness—the memory of him—because I knew I was in the wrong. I had, after all, cheated.
Though Vihaan and I lived like strangers, we weren’t officially separated. We lived in the same house on most days, but slept in separate rooms. But what happened in Italy would stay there.