Page 107 of October
She opened it slowly, inside was a delicate bracelet with three small stars, one for each of our children. Each star bore an engraved initial:J,A,L. Her lips parted, eyes going soft. "For every night you woke up to feed them. Every morning you kissed a scraped knee. For being their safe place," I said. "and mine."
She was looking at the bracelet with a sweet smile.
"Did you know that in Hindi, 'Jal' means water?" I added gently., "It's the beginning of the bracelet, and I think that's fitting. Water is life. It adapts. It carves through stone if you give it time. That's what we've done, you and me. That's what love is, I think...carving through grief, joy, silence, chaos, and still flowing forward."
She blinked slowly, eyes shimmering, and I reached forward to fasten the bracelet around her wrist. For a moment, she said nothing, just leaned in, gently resting her forehead against mine. Her voice, when it came, was a breath more than a whisper.
"It's beautiful... really."
"Thank you love," I said, pulling her into my lap. Then, almost shyly, she reached behind a pillow and pulled out a small, rectangular box wrapped in navy paper.
"This is for you," she said, a small smile playing at her lips. "I know you're usually the one who surprises me on the kids' birthdays, but I'm learning your love language... remember?"
Inside the box was a pen — sleek, elegant, weighty in my hand. I turned it slowly, and there, engraved along the barrel in delicate lettering, were the words:
"For the man who rewrote everything. Let's begin again, without erasing the past."
My throat tightened.
"October..." I said softly, the rest of the words caught somewhere between my ribs and my heart.
She cupped my cheek. "You always write letters. Notes. Words I never got from anyone else, not like that. I wanted you to have something to write with because it's time to begin again. No more erasing the past. Just... carrying it differently.
My throat tightened. "I don't know what I ever did to deserve your grace."
"You showed up," she said softly. "You learned. You apologized and didn't stop there. That's everything."
We sat like that for a while, her fingers idly playing with the collar of my shirt, my arm wrapped around her waist, our foreheads resting together in the warm hush of a home that felt whole again. I kissed her slowly, like I was learning her all over, even though I'd never really forgotten.
After a beat, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a folded page. "You remember that night," I said softly, "when we joked about needing commandments to get this right?"
She let out a quiet laugh, eyes narrowing in amused suspicion. "You didn't."
"I did," I said, handing it to her. "Not rules. Just reminders. My ten commandments of loving you right."
She unfolded the paper, and as her eyes moved down the list, her expression shifted, smile softening, eyes shining. She read them aloud, one by one, her voice tender, her breath catching just slightly on the last.
I will always choose us first.
I will speak love, not just feel it.
I will never stop showing up, especially on the hard days.
I will listen without defensiveness.
I will not mistake your strength for not needing care.
I will nurture what we build, every day.
I will honor your body and your mind.
I will never compete with your dreams, only protect them.
I will celebrate your joy like it's mine.
I will never take your love for granted—not one hour, not one breath.
When she looked up at me, her eyes were brimming with tears, those silent, heavy ones that don't fall right away but blur everything, like light behind water. Her lips parted slightly, and for a second she didn't speak. She just looked at me like I was something she hadn't quite believed in until now. I reached for her hand and said it slowly, like a promise carved into stone.
