17 years later
You never really understand how fast time moves until you're standing in a sunlit kitchen on a Saturday morning, watching your sixteen-year-old son dodge his mother's attempt to kiss him in front of his friends.
And fail.
Spectacularly.
"Come onnnn, just one—wait! You didn't even give me a good morning kiss, baby!"
Vivienne's voice echoed through the house like a storm in a teacup — dramatic, chaotic, utterly unstoppable. She was practically leaping across the marble kitchen island, holding a piece of toast like a weapon of affection, chasing our son like her life depended on it.
He — of course — looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
"Mom, I have friends over—can you not—"
"I missed you last night, do you know how many hours you were gone?! What if I never saw you again?" she wailed, full soap-opera mode, hugging him from behind and ruffling his perfectly styled black hair.
"Viv," I called, somewhere between a laugh and a warning. "You saw him last night. He came home at 9 PM."
"That's still eight hours of suffering, Damien!" she whined, still glued to our son's side like she hadn't seen him in years instead of just sleeping across the hallway from him.
He groaned, glaring at me. "Dad. Control your wife."
"Sorry, kid," I said, sipping my coffee with a smirk. "She was like this with me too, remember?"
"She still is," he muttered.
"She's not wrong."
Vivienne grinned like the sunshine she still was, then pinched his cheek until he scowled harder. "Come on, just one tiny baby kiss on your perfect cheek—how are you so cute and tall and smart and—ugh, you're my best creation."
"Mom—"
"My darling boy—"
"Vivienne," I said, finally putting my mug down and stepping between them before he combusted.
She looked at me, pouting with those same eyes that once ruined me at eighteen and still did now. Her long hair — somehow still down to her hips — was in its usual weekend braid. She was wearing one of my old med school shirts, barefoot and radiant.
I kissed her forehead. "Let the boy breathe."
"He's my baby."
"He's six-foot-two."
"I gave birth to that six-foot-two baby."
Our son groaned again, grabbing his basketball shoes. "Going to the court. Before she tries to swaddle me or something."
"You used to love it when I swaddled you—!"
"Bye, Mom!"
He bolted. Viv slumped into my chest dramatically, sighing like the world had ended.
"I raised a cold, ungrateful, brooding little version of you," she grumbled.
I wrapped my arms around her waist, kissing the top of her head. "Well. You fell in love with the first one. Maybe you're raising the second for someone else to."
"Gross," she said, but smiled anyway. "He better choose someone who actually adores him. Or I'll interfere."
"Oh, you'll interfere no matter what."
"True."
We stood like that for a while — husband and wife, chaos and calm. She curled into me like she always had, even after all these years.
I looked out the kitchen window at our son walking down the driveway with his usual straight back, jaw clenched, earbuds in — the spitting image of me at sixteen.Except… better.
He had my eyes. Her lips. My stubbornness. Her ridiculous heart.
And whether he liked it or not — he was so loved. Loudly. Fiercely. Endlessly.
"Do you think he knows how much we love him?" Vivienne asked softly, fingers toying with mine.
I glanced down at her, pressing my lips to hers. "Yeah. He knows."
Even when he rolls his eyes.Even when he hides in his room.Even when he pretends not to like the clingy kisses and the packed lunches and the surprise visits.
He knows.
Because love — with Vivienne — never went unnoticed.
It was loud. It was clingy. It was chaotic.And it was the greatest thing that had ever happened to me.
The end.
Signing out.
Siddhii Singh.