Page 4 of Rich and Rotten

College was my escape from my life in Greenwich, but after Nazir left me, it never felt the same. I didn’t have time to drown in my feelings, though. No, I had a wedding to attend––my own wedding. I was forced to stand before God, exchanging vows with a man I didn’t want or love. But God proved to me that I was a liar because here I was––standing at Karim’s grave and mourning him on what would have been his 35th birthday. No candles. No celebration. Only me left to pick up the broken pieces of our marriage.

I never thought I would fall in love with him. Our fathers wanted this union, not me, and I swore to myself I would never give Karim my heart. Honestly, my heart was already broken. So I figured, why not marry the rich man’s son and go along with the plot for my life? But somewhere along the way, that plot twisted and turned into eight years of loving and respecting each other. And it ended with the doctor telling me he didn’t make it. Now, I stood heartbroken, still asking the same question I had back then: God, why take me through all of this only to leave me broken in the end?

“Babes, you have lunch with your father at Miller’s Pointe,” Yaya, my assistant, reminded me as I stared at the onyx gravestone engraved with the words: Son, husband, father, and friend until the end.

Picking up a nearby rock, I brushed away some dirt from the headstone and placed it on top. All I could think about was all the wasted time during our first two years of marriage––those two years we spent hating everything about each other.

Shoving my hands into the pockets of my Mackage trench coat, I walked through the cemetery until I made it back to the black-tinted SUV my father had sent for me. Visiting Karim on his birthday was a priority for me, so I didn’t care about making him wait.

Yaya quickly rounded the truck to her side as the driver held the door open for me to get in. As I settled into my seat, I pulled my vibrating phone out of my pocket. A smile spread across my face as I looked at the incoming FaceTime call.

“Hi, baby. How was school today?”

She smiled, mirroring my own expression. “It was cool, Mom. Um, how happy are you right now?”

I narrowed my eyes at my daughter as she sheepishly smiled, knowing she was about to tell me something that wouldn’t make me happy. “Why, Nazira?”

She huffed into the phone. “I lost my lunchbox again,” she said, then quickly added, “I promise I’m going to find it tomorrow.”

This was her third lunchbox this school year. Every time she promised to find it, but she never did, because it was, in fact, lost. Nazira was a free-spirited child who reminded me of myself once upon a time. As much as she was a free spirit, she was also determined, diligent, and responsible. Well, she was responsible except when it came to keeping up with her lunchbox.

“Zira, you said that last time, and we had to buy another one. How does someone keep losing their lunchbox?”

She sighed loudly before running down the story of what happened again, being very theatrical because she was a theater kid. We used to see shows on Broadway at least once a month. After we lost Karim, we went more often to lift our spirits.

“...And that’s how I lost my lunchbox.”

“Nazira, I’m starting to think you’re losing them on purpose because you want to eat the school lunches instead of the ones I pack for you.”

I caught a spark of mischief in her eyes.

“Not true, Mom. When are you coming home?” she asked, quickly changing the subject.

Her school had an early dismissal today, which meant she was home sooner than expected. Bloom, her au pair, usually picked her up when I couldn’t, and since I was meeting with my father, today was one of those days.

“I have lunch with your grandfather. Once I’m finished, I’ll be home.”

Nazira perked up. “Can we stay in the city and catch a Broadway show? It’s the weekend, and I don’t have school on Monday.”

The last two years had been hard for us both emotionally. I no longer felt like myself, as though part of me was missing.

Karim.

He was supposed to be here beside me, but he was gone. As a mother, I did my best to be present and help my daughter carry her grief while carrying my own. I had lost a husband, and she had lost a father. Neither pain outweighed the other, and once I realized that and checked myself, things became less foggy. Therapy twice a week, along with lots of quality time, helped us. Work consumed much of my time, but I appreciated the distraction from feeling lonely. I never thought I’d get to the point where I would want to discover love again, but there were days when I craved love and someone’s touch.

“Mom? Hello?”

“Sorry, baby. I’ll have Yaya look up some shows, and then we’ll head to the city once I’m done.”

“Already on it,” Yaya whispered, holding up her phone.

Nazira cheered. “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best. Love you, stinky socks.”

I chuckled. “Love you more, rotten cheese.”

We had been saying that since she was five years old, and I hoped we would continue saying it until she had children of her own and could pass it down to them.

After ending the FaceTime call with Nazira, I leaned my head back against the seat as the driver took us to my father’s favorite restaurant––a place where he always held meetings and where the staff treated him like royalty.