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Chapter 17: Perfect
Their marriage was quiet in the ways that mattered.
Reza cooked.
Not occasionally, not as a gesture, but as a rhythm. Meals appeared without announcement - warm, considered, balanced. Ifa learned early that this was how he loved: through care made tangible. Through noticing when she was tired before she admitted it. Through remembering which spices reminded her of home and which ones she avoided on difficult days.
He supported her without keeping score.
Emotionally, he was steady. When she spiraled into doubt, he didn’t rush to fix her; he listened until the storm passed on its own. When work overwhelmed her, he reminded her of who she was before the deadline and who she would still be after. When fear resurfaced - quiet, irrational, old - he didn’t ask her to explain it away. He simply stayed.
Physically, he was present. Hands ready. Shoulders offered. Silence shared without discomfort.
Financially, they were a team. There was no hierarchy, no unspoken debt. When one earned more, it was theirs. When one earned less, it was still theirs. Decisions were made together, spreadsheets side by side, dreams penciled in at the margins.
Reza loved her parents as his own.
He showed up early. Stayed late. Listened more than he spoke. He fixed what needed fixing without announcing it and asked for advice when he didn’t know. Ifa watched her parents soften around him, watched her mother worry less, her father laugh more. It felt like a home expanding rather than rearranging.
They argued, but never to win.
Disagreements were approached like puzzles, not battles. They asked what went wrong instead of who. They backed each other up in public, always. Corrections happened privately, gently. Pride was never more important than peace.
To outsiders, it looked perfect. To them, it felt intentional. There were no children.
People assumed many things. That they hadn’t tried. That they were too focused on themselves. That there was a quiet sadness they didn’t speak of. The truth was heavier, and lighter, than that.
They tried. They went for fertility checks. They both had issues and would need intervention. They did go that route.
Three rounds of IVF. Each one beginning with cautious hope and ending in quiet grief. Hormones, appointments, waiting rooms that smelled like antiseptic and expectation. Each failure mourned privately, held between them like something fragile but not defining.
Ifa wanted to go for the forth, but Reza couldn't bear to watch her taking the painful jabs and the grieving that follows. They went forth to go for adoption.
Three adoption attempts. Each one unraveling for reasons beyond their control - policy changes, sudden reversals. The most painful was that almost theirs. Ifa went on to lactate herself, she was producing her own milk after 6 weeks of pumping every 2hours round the clock. She was able to produce enough for a newborn when she held the baby. 3 nights the baby slept in their room. Just as both their hopes were beginning to see light, the biological mom decided it was too tough and wanted her baby back. They had no choice but to return the baby. That was their ultimatum. That grief was uncalled for.
They sat on the floor of their living room, backs against the couch, exhaustion settling into their bones.
“We can stop,” Reza said. Not with relief. With honesty.
Ifa nodded. “We can also be enough.”
And they were. Warm in each other's arms. They were indeed enough.
They filled their lives with movement and memory. Long rides through unfamiliar roads. Cycling trips that left their legs burning and their hearts light. Camping under skies that didn’t care about legacy, only presence. They learned new places together, got lost on purpose, returned home tired and content.
They built traditions that didn’t require inheritance—Sunday breakfasts, annual trips, small rituals only they understood. They planned to grow old together.
Holidays that involved extended families, they went to many places exploring food, activities, and everything together. Through their travels, they had conversations, deep ones.
They spoke of future knees that would ache, of slower rides, of mornings that would stretch longer. They joked about becoming that couple who argued about travel destinations and still held hands.
There were also nights, where they spoke of death, they willed their wealth to each other, they discussed about things they want to give to charity, things they want each other to hold on to and keep, things they would like to gift someone they know, things they want the surviving partner to continue doing, and things they hope for each other. They laughed and joked about it. Death seemed far away.
Their happiness was not loud. It was complete. And sometimes, late at night, Ifa would watch Reza asleep beside her and think—This is everything.
She didn’t know then how fragile “everything” could be, and how death can feel so far yet so close...
/--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)
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