Page 6 of If I Loved You Less
I place my plate in the sink. It has an adorable Beatrix Potter print, part of a set from Pottery Barn that always reminds me of Mama, since she would serve our breakfast on these plates when we were kids. I make Papa’s cappuccino, making sure it’s extra hot (if it is even one degree colder than scalding, he refuses to drink it) then carry his plate and mug out of the kitchen.
“Papa, breakfast,” I say, walking over to his office, where he is already dressed and sorting through some old papers in his briefcase. When I appear in the door, he looks up at me from his massive reading glasses. As usual, he is dressed in a smart suit, his hair still a little damp from his shower.
“I’ll be there in just a moment,” he says. His attention is barely diverted. I place his breakfast plate on the table before him. “Oh.” He blinks. “Thank you, jaani.”
When he does not give his food attention, I walk over and take the papers from his hand and replace them with his coffee. Papa doesn’t drink chai, which is unheard of and, quite honestly, personally offensive to me. However, he does drink coffee, so I don’t shun him entirely.
“We are going to the office,” I say. “You can look at these there. Now eat.”
He eats as I put the papers back into his briefcase. I pick up his phone from beneath a pile of papers and set it in front of him before he can ask.
“Tch, Papa, why don’t you get a new screen protector?” I ask, seeing the shattered cover.
“Then how would you buy your new lip gloss?” Papa replies. I shake my head at him in amusement. We clearly have enough money to afford both, but old habits die hard.
Papa is from a small village in Pakistan and immigrated to the US when he was eighteen to go to college. He’s never been in the habit of spending. Back when Mama was alive, she would always handle the finances, and I think Papa truly doesn't know how much money he has in his accounts (which is quite a bit).
I shake my head at him, making a mental note to order him one as I leave his office. I slip on my Loro Piana loafers (a bit casual, I know, but divinely comfortable), then wave goodbye to Papa and head to my car, juggling my tote, latte, phone, and jacket.
I set the things into my midnight blue Mercedes and settle in, reciting the traveling dua before putting on some cheerful music. As I am pulling out of the driveway, Papa leaves the house, the door locking automatically behind him, and heads to his own car, a sleek white Tesla.
We are headed to the same place, our office twenty minutes away, but Papa tends to stay longer hours, while I leave once the clock strikes five. (Sometimes earlier, if I am being honest.) Papa is the CEO and chief consultant of his own company, where he designs commercial buildings. I’m one of the engineers there; I studied civil engineering and have been working with Papa since I graduated (with honors) over a year ago last May.
Papa never pushed me to do one thing, he just wished for me to get educated and get a good job, Mama too. She never went to college and was always entirely dependent on her husband. When she was eighteen, she got married and moved to America, where she knew exactly no one. It was good Papa didn’t end up being a psychopath because she was entirely reliant on him. Which is exactly why she never wanted us to be dependent on any man.
(Honestly, sometimes a girl wants to be dependent on a man for certain things.)
I am Papa’s little heiress, which just sounds right out of a period drama, doesn’t it? So I spend a lot of time learning the ropes from him and managing and going to meetings, rather than strictly drafting up blueprints etc.
It’s good work, and I enjoy it, but on days like today, I feel restless.
When I get to our office building, I park right in front, then head into the five-story building. Our offices are on the fourth floor, and the other floors are rented out by other businesses. I take the elevator up, then smile and say “good morning” to my coworkers as I head toward my desk. There are about twelve of us on site, which makes Papa feel as though he’s running a very quaint Mom-and-Pop store, though our profits are far from it.
I’m not exactly best friends with any of my coworkers; we’re cordial, of course, but I think they all keep their distance from “the boss’s daughter.” So while the work is alright, I can’t say I exactly havefunevery day. And today is especially dreary.
I spend the morning on video conferences that surely could have been emails, and our computer system is running terribly slowly, which is driving everyone nuts.
I tap my nails against the keyboard of my Mac, looking around. My desk is decorated with a vase of fresh flowers, a small stack of books, a vintage teacup and saucer, and a little diffuser which emits a sweet sugary scent.
I reach into my drawer of emergency snacks and pull out some chocolate (Lindt chocolate from Switzerland really is superior) and nibble on the edge of a bar while I stare at my screen, not wanting to do any work. It’s nearly twelve, so I take a deep breath and stand. I’ll just go grab some lunch and maybe drive around for a bit.
But even after that is done, I still feel disquieted. Releasing a long breath in my car, I exit and head back into the air-conditioned office building, approaching the elevator. It closes just as I approach, but I make eye-contact with one of the passengers inside as it does. A moment later, the door reopens.
“Thanks,” I say, smiling sweetly. The elevator is filled with a few finance-bros from another business in the building, and in the corner, I spot a familiar face.
One of our new workers pushed to the side. From what I recall, she is a graduate student doing her Masters in Architecture and working part-time at our company as an intern. She clutches her purse to her chest, looking like quite the lost lamb.
Clearing my throat, I enter the elevator and stand towards the middle.
“Oh, excuse me,” I say. The finance-bros move over when I flash them another smile. They get off on the second floor, and the intern releases an audible sigh of relief, as if she has been holding her breath. From what I remember of her resume, we are nearly the same age, and she is from Pakistan.
“You’re Shanzay, right?” I say. It’s just us two in the elevator. She startles, as if not used to being noticed. I wait for her reply, and she nods.
The elevator doors open to the fourth floor, our destination, and she presses the open button.
“After you, Miss Mirza, ma’am,” she says.
“Oh, please don’t call me that,” I say, waving my hand. “I’m Humaira.”
