Over the years, a small part of me had somehow kept hoping that they would come looking for me.
But they never had.
I wanted to know them. I wanted to know the story behind my birth. My mother. My father. What were they like? Were they in love? Did their parents oppose their union? Had they wanted me and lost me, or had they chosen to let me go?
So many questions.
Still no answers.
As I carried Emma to feed her again, I wondered about my birth mother.Was she in the same situation as me? Was she young and single when she had me? Did she feel the same joy when I was born, or did she feel regret?I wondered whether she had support in her life then. Had her parents stood by her? Had the man in her life, her partner or boyfriend, stayed with her? Had she been alone? Had she been scared? Had anyone held her hand the way Cole had held mine today?
I looked down at Emma.
She had my jet-black hair and dimples when she smiled, but she had the same blue-green eyes as her father.
“My beautiful little girl,” I whispered. “I’m gonna love you so much and take such good care of you.”
I adored my baby girl in my arms, but I could not fully enjoy my blessing because my thoughts kept returning to Caleb. He had no idea his daughter even existed, and that truth sat in my chest like a stone. I still questioned whether I was doing the right thing by not telling him. I wished I could rewind time—stop it just long enough to share this moment with Caleb and our daughter, even if only for an instant.
Fresh tears rolled down my cheeks.
I wish your father was here to see you.
I closed my eyes, and Caleb’s handsome face appeared in the darkness.
20
JIYA
Juggling the restaurant and the children was not easy for me. I had forgotten what it was like to have an infant. Waking up to feed Emma in the middle of the night, passing out in the rocking chair from sheer exhaustion, dropping Lucas off at school, and then heading to the restaurant with my daughter strapped to me drained every bit of energy from my body until I felt like a battery running on empty.
The sleepless nights, the endless days, and the gruelling schedule of dealing with work, school, and the house made me feel and look like a walking zombie. Some mornings, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I barely recognized the tired woman staring back at me with dark circles under her eyes and hair that had been thrown together in a hurry.
Even though I loved being a mother, I was grateful to have Geeta helping me. With Lucas, I had Patty, and now with Emma, I had Geeta. Still, there were moments when I found myself wishing I had my birth mother to guide me through both of these journeys. I longed for someone who would take care of me in the instinctive way mothers seemed to know how to do. Someone who would pass down family recipes throughgenerations, tell me which medications worked best, teach me old tricks for curing rashes and coughs, and gift me with some treasured heirloom, even if it were something as silly and simple as a gumball machine. I wanted those tiny pieces of history and comfort that came so naturally to other women, and the ache of not having that sometimes sat in my chest like an empty chair at the table when I was already at my most vulnerable.
One morning, while refreshing my email on my phone and breastfeeding my daughter, I said softly, “Hmm... let’s see if there is some good news today, Emma.” My voice was light, but I was hoping for something, anything, that might brighten the exhaustion-heavy morning.
When nothing popped up, disappointment sank into me immediately. “That’s alright,” I murmured, trying to sound cheerful as I adjusted my bra and buttoned my blouse after feeding her. “Time to see Daddy, my darling.”
I typed Caleb’s name on my phone, and numerous pictures flooded the screen, lifting my spirits in an instant. A small, helpless smile curved my lips as I angled the screen toward Emma. “There’s Daddy, Emma. See... Daddy... you’ve got his beautiful eyes.”
It gave me a good excuse to show my daughter what her father looked like, and it reminded me to keep Caleb in my thoughts even as I tried to move forward.
Lucas bounced into the room minutes later. He took extra special care of Emma and hovered around her with the sweetest mixture of curiosity and protectiveness. He was always so gentle and careful with her, as though he already understood how precious she was. Sometimes he would wake up in the middle of the night and keep me company while I fed her, rubbing his sleepy eyes and asking questions. Proud beyond measure of his new sister, he had taken her outside with Geeta’s help the week after we came home from the hospital and introduced her to allthe children in the neighbourhood as if he were presenting them with someone incredibly important.
“Mama, she’s so pretty and small. Will she grow up soon so I can play with her?” he asked one afternoon when he came back from school, rocking her carefully in his arms.
“She is lucky to have a big brother like you, and I’m sure she can’t wait to grow up and play with you too,” I said with a smile, sitting beside him and watching the tenderness on his face.
As the months passed, I found myself constantly taking pictures of Emma and recording all her little quirks. I had done the same with Lucas when he was a baby, and now I was doing it all over again, except this time it felt even more bittersweet because I knew how quickly those precious stages would disappear. I pasted the pictures into an album and divided them into sections for each month. These were moments I wanted to treasure forever, moments I never wanted to lose to time. I placed the albums on shelves in Lucas’s room and in Emma’s nursery, surrounding us with memories I could hold onto.
Elle and Karl surprised me with a visit one weekend when Emma was four months old. Lucas was thrilled that Noah was with them, and the entire house came alive with commotion and noise. Laughter spilled from room to room, feet pounded across the floors, and voices overlapped until the place felt warm and full in a way that reminded me how much I had missed having people I loved nearby.
Cole popped by on Saturday night, and we all spent a wonderful evening together. By then, he had practically become a constant in our lives. He dropped in every second day to check on Emma and me, and sometimes he gave me the greatest gift of all by giving me a break so I could sleep.
“You want me to take over?” he asked that evening.
“Yes, please,” I said, handing my daughter over to him.
