The Hand I Have Yet to Hold

I have a little confession to make.

I think I’ve been in love for years. Not with someone, but with a life.

Maa, whenever you tell me you want to see me married, I laugh. I tease you, change the subject, ask what’s for dinner. It is easier than telling you the truth.

How do I tell you that every time I imagine my future, there isn’t a man standing beside me?

There is her.

I don’t know her name yet. I don’t know where she’s from, what books she reads, or whether she likes her tea too sweet. But somehow, I already know the life I want with her.

I see us in a small beachside home where the windows are always open.

The sea breeze carries the smell of salt into the living room. A lamp glows beside my book. She is curled up on the couch, pretending to watch her favourite series before falling asleep halfway through another episode. I pull a blanket over her, kiss her forehead, and smile because this, somehow, is enough.

No grand declarations. No perfect love story.

Just a quiet life that feels like home.

When you tell me you can’t wait to have grandchildren running through the house, I smile because I don’t know how to tell you that my dream has always looked different. I imagine us being the loving aunts who spoil our nieces and nephews a little too much before returning to the little life we’ve built together.

I always tell people I want to visit Paris one day.

What I never tell them is who I want to take with me.

The picture is still blurry, but I can already see our hands before I can see our faces. Two simple wedding bands. A quiet café somewhere outside the city. Her hand reaching across the table without thinking. A photograph we will probably never frame because the memory will be enough.

How do I tell you, Maa, that I was never meant to become the daughter you imagined?

I don’t know how to tell you this, Maa, but for me, love was never a man.

It was never society’s approval, or a life lived to make everyone else comfortable. It was never restriction, explanation, or apology.

Love is the hand I have yet to hold. The home I have yet to return to. The ordinary life I have been dreaming of for years. The photograph that still has one corner left to fill.

I only hope that when it’s finally taken, you’re standing beside us.

Writer’s note: If this found you at the right time, I hope you never settle for a life that asks you to love more quietly than you deserve.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.