Before We Blew It Up

3| After

Six years later...

The baby is shrieking again. It's those throat-deep screams that only seem to grow an octave higher with every second, her face a deep red shade. How is this possible when their lungs are so tiny? As if she can hear my thoughts, little Nayla only screams louder, this time roughly waving her hand around.

Undisturbed, Aaradhya reaches behind her for the baby bag she carries, fishes inside and pulls out a stuffed toy. Immediately, Nayla stops her screeching, mouth forming a little 'O,' that I've come to realize means she's curious. She coos and reaches for it with her little grabby hands, crawling forward.

"Look at her go, it's so adorable," Layla says, reaching out to boop the baby's nose, and then laughing when she crinkles her nose and shakes her head. "She's like a little copy of you."

"It's not adorable when she ends up crawling in the wrong places and gets herself stuck. And just you wait, I'm finding more and more details of Aaron."

Aaradhya leans back against the couch, lifting her hair and tying it in a bun. Her hair is a few shades darker than her complexion, and she manages to tie the mass of deep coffee colored hair into a bun with just two wraps. I'll do three and it's still not enough sometimes.

She catches me looking. "I'm telling you, it's all in the oil. Neem, olive, and black oil."

"More like genetics."

"South-East Asian genetics," she amends. "And also the oil. But the shedding isn't fun. Or how it tangles easily."

She laughs a little before tsking when she looks to her daughter and sees that she's trying to rip the ear off the stuffed cat. Taking out her phone, she snaps a picture and sends it to her husband. It still feels so weird calling Aaron her husband, even though they've been married for almost six years now.

Six years. Gosh, it's been that long?

That long since university started, since eighteen? The thought pulls in memories of blond hair and a sheepish smile, of hours exploring and then hunkering down, notepads open and guitar out. And still, it hurts. Maybe duller, maybe infused with it wouldn't have worked anyway and gosh, I handled things so immaturely. But somehow, that always makes it hurt more; the regret.

But I remind myself that I did try to find him, and it didn't work. Maybe you just didn't look enough. For the same reason you left.

"Anyway, so I was saying, she was being totally paagal, I mean, over fifty – edited – photos, in less than a day? And with half the price? Luckily her fiancé handled it after that, and he didn't have a problem with it. He's going to need patience, that's for sure."

She has her phone out, and shows us the finished work, and it's clear why Aaradhya is one of the most coveted photographers in the Bay Area, with a career established – along with a kid – before the age of twenty five.

Sometimes, it's humbling for me, considering it takes hours for me to decide between whether or not to use a high or low note, let alone memorizing the song. My father would say something like, looks like she got the Asian memo and you didn't. It's interesting how he's fully aware of the stereotype, and kind of... proud of it.

As if the thought summons him – a chill creeps over my skin, making the hair on the back of my neck stand, bringing the nonsensical fear that my father is in fact a mind reader – my phone buzzes and 'Dad' flashes across the screen. Layla catches it, her eyebrows raising, and gives me a thumbs up gesture.

Our relationship has improved over the years, even if it did involve my mother playing peacemaker frequently, but sometimes, there's still that dread that creeps over me whenever I talk to him. The fear of disappointment and not being enough, even though I've come to realize my worth and don't crave his validation or praise anymore.