A Life we never Lived

Need? What’s needed, baby, if not a life with you? Not the loud kind, But one so simple and holy. Us, growing old, weathered by time. A house tucked into a quiet corner of the countryside, not big, but ours. Walls that carried our laughter, our arguments, our love pressed into every beam, every inch of the floor we’d walked a million times.

A backyard that smelled of autumn leaves and summer’s ripe afternoons. Our little piece of the world, a patch of green where we’d plant dreams. And in the middle of it all, Our daughter.

God, babe, she’d have been ours, but you know what I mean when I say, she was more mine than anything. Her tiny body curled into my chest, her heartbeat drumming softly into mine as she slept in that baby carrier strapped to me.
We’d walk like that, me and her, and you beside us, to the supermarket down the street on Saturdays. The sky would blush with sunset as we filled our bags with things we didn’t need. It'll be heavy with groceries, but not as heavy as the love we carried back home with us.

And yeah, I’d want a husky, even though I’d hear you groan about it every time.
“Why a dog?” you’d say, and I’d laugh, kiss your cheek, and remind you,
“Our daughter needs a companion, you stupid peanut.”
You’d roll your eyes, but secretly, I’d see it - the way you’d soften, when the dog’s eyes mirrored hers, Both of them so full of trust.

I’d teach her everything I could, How to swim through the tides of life, to float, even when the weight was unbearable. How to hold patience in her palm like a fragile flower and to crush it only when absolutely necessary. I’d teach her to question the world and the answers she’d been handed, to find her own truths, and build a home within herself. And faith, She’d have both yours and mine. Temple bells on one day, Church hymns on another. Her small hands folded in prayer, not to divide, but to unite. Because love doesn’t care where it prays, It just prays to belong.

We’d have a car, babe, nothing fancy, but enough to hold us, enough to carry the weight of our little world. Its seats, stained with crayons, the faint scent of porridge spills and your perfume, lingering in the air like a memory that never faded.
Mornings, the three of us would pile in, you in the passenger seat, checking your schedule, Me driving, and her in the back, swinging her legs and talking about nothing and everything.

We’d drop you off first, your clinic in the city gleaming in the soft morning light, a place that was yours, where you healed and mended the world in your quiet way. I’d watch you step out, your bag slung over your shoulder, your hand holding the door frame as you bent to kiss her, Then me. “Don’t be late,” you’d say, but your smile always betrayed you, soft and lingering, like a secret only I knew.

Then it was just me and her, her voice filling the car with questions, her laughter spilling into every silence. We’d head to school, where I’d teach words and dreams to restless minds, and she’d learn to navigate her own.

By the time we returned, the sun would be dipping low, and there you’d be, waiting in the courtyard of your clinic, your face tired but alight when you saw us. She’d rush to you, her arms flung wide, and I’d follow, slower, knowing my world stood right there, in the glow of the evening light. And we’d drive home together, the three of us again, the car humming with stories of the day, her giggles punctuating the air, as your hand found mine on the gear shift.

The evenings were ours, as we’d get home together, the three of us, stepping into the warmth of our little world. You’d kick off your shoes by the door, your bag slumping into the corner, and she’d toss her school bag onto the couch, already complaining about homework.

But the dinner was ours to share, you and me in the kitchen, the clatter of pans, the hum of the stove, as we worked in quiet rhythm. I’d chop while you stirred, or maybe it was the other way around, we didn’t care, because this was us, our ritual. While she’d sit at the table, books sprawled open, pencil tapping against her cheek as she wrestled with equations and spelling lists. We’d pause, leaning over her shoulder, our voices blending as we helped her solve the puzzles of her little world. Her laughter would spill out when we got it wrong, and her eyes would gleam with pride when she got it right.

When dinner was ready, we’d all gather, plates full, hearts fuller, her favorite cartoon playing softly in the background. Sometimes, it’d be her show. Other nights, it’d be ours. But no matter what was on the screen, it was the love between us that played the loudest.

At night, I’d sleep on the floor, close to you both, watching the rise and fall of your breaths. My heart, so full it hurt, as I told myself, “This is enough. This is everything.”

At 2:30 in the morning, when both of my worlds are sound asleep, I’d wake, the stillness thick and comforting, The kind of quiet that lets thoughts breathe. I’d slip out of my bed made of bedsheets, careful not to disturb you both, and there on the same floor, I’d stretch and begin the day no one else saw.

First, I’d plan the Lessons for restless minds at school, then thoughts for the book that lived inside my chest, words spilling onto the page like whispers in the dark. The hum of the pen against paper would be broken only by the soft clatter of kibble as I fed our husky, Its eyes watching me with silent trust.

By 4:00, I’d gently wake you, your face soft with sleep, still tangled in dreams, eyes heavy with the night. You’d mumble for your drink, your voice thick with slumber, as I mention that I’m gonna make mine. But I’d remind you, “Not yet, baby, not before you brush first.” You’d sigh, but you’d agree, because you knew that was how we worked, a little patience, a little push, before the comfort of that drink you craved. And I’d smile, watching you move slowly. Then, I’d brew the drinks, a cup of coffee just the way you liked it, dark, smooth, a little sweet. And tea for myself, strong and earthy, the kind that kept me grounded through the whirlwind of the day. And we’d walk outside together. Just the two of us, the cold air wrapping around us as we made our rounds through the plot of land that held our dreams. Our husky would stay behind, its duty clear, - to guard our daughter’s dreams, to watch over the most precious piece of our world. By 5:00, we’d be back, the sunrise hinting at the day ahead. You’d dive into your own tasks, while I’d tiptoe to wake her, her sleepy eyes lighting up when she saw me.

We’d water the garden together, her giggles filling the morning air, her tiny hands gripping the hose as she splashed more than she watered. Then, it was the park, her, our husky, and me. I’d carry her laughter back with me like a trophy, even as you called out, “Don’t take too long!” But we always did, our stolen moments too precious to cut short.

By the time we returned, you’d be waiting, arms crossed, mock scolding us for always running late. She’d duck behind me, her little giggles infectious, and I’d grin and whisper back to her, “Mommy looks cutie when she’s angry angry, doesn’t she?” And we’d rush through breakfast, her calling for you to braid her hair, you stomping over with half-feigned frustration, scolding us both for our tardiness.

But somehow, we’d make it. Her, you, me, all of us tumbling into the car, late, but together, ready to face another day of the life we built.

And Sundays, baby, they were ours. A Little piece of the week we carved out just for us, a day that felt like a reset, a chance to breathe together. We’d head to the city, the bustling streets full of people we didn’t know, but we didn’t need to know them, because we had each other.

We’d start at the mall, wandering, hand in hand, me stealing glances at you when you didn’t notice, catching that soft smile that only I knew. The hum of the crowd, the flashing lights, all faded into the background as we walked, the rhythm of our steps syncing, as if we had our own beat, our own little world that no one else could touch.

We’d stop at the food court, the smell of popcorn and burgers thick in the air. Our daughter would beg for candy, and I’d be the soft one, letting her pick a treat while you rolled your eyes, grumbling about how she didn’t need it. But it didn’t matter, because she’d look at you with those eyes that always made you give in - you’d sigh and buy her the biggest bag of sweets.

Then, maybe we’d catch a movie. Something light, something silly, but still, we’d sit there, shoulders touching, laughing at jokes that weren’t that funny, but felt like they mattered because we were together. Her giggles beside us would fill the dark theater.

And sometimes, when the day was still young, we’d take a detour, not straight home, but to your parents' house. I’d drop you and our daughter off, kissing you both goodbye, before heading to my mum’s place, just for a little while. Because I knew you wouldn’t be comfortable at mine. You and her would stay, filling your parents’ house with love and noise, and I’d visit mine, because that’s what we did, we shared our worlds. But she would often beg to come with me to my mum’s, and I’d take her, because it was important for her to know both sides of her story, to see where I came from, to understand the roots of her family. And when she wasn’t with me, she was with you, spending time with her grandparents, creating her own memories.

Then, as the day wound down, we’d come back together again, You, me, her, our family whole. No matter how the day unfolded, it always ended with us, a moment of quiet joy that felt like home, wherever we were.

This is what I dreamed for us. A life so rich in its simplicity that it didn’t need the world’s applause. But baby, it never happened. It never even began. You left before we could build it, before her tiny hands clung to mine, before her laughter filled the air. You left before the fights about the dog, before the dinners, before the mornings where I’d kiss you like it was the first time. A life that was never lived, just imagined, a future where everything was perfect, but it’s all just a dream.

We didn’t get that life, baby. It was mine to hold, mine to imagine, but you left before I could even see if we could make it. You left before I could prove that all those dreams could have been real, that all that love we talked about could’ve actually lived, that we could’ve had that house, that car, that backyard where our daughter ran free, and I could’ve taught her everything. I dreamed of waking up to those mornings, waking up beside you, hearing our daughter’s laughter fill the air, seeing us all grow old together. But it’s just a thought now, a ghost of a future that will never come. I’ll never know if we would’ve made it, if we could’ve had that family, if I could’ve been the dad I dreamed of being, if we could’ve made those Sundays ours. I’ll never get to see that life unfold. I’ll never get the chance to prove that dream was real.

Because you left. And now I’m left with a story that’s only in my head, a story that’ll never see the light of day, a life that I’ll never live. I can only hold onto the pieces, the "what ifs" and "maybes," but they’ll never be more than just that. You took everything with you when you left. My future, my hopes, my dreams. And I’m here, stuck with nothing but the ache of never getting to see if this life was even possible. But damn, baby, I would’ve loved it. I would’ve loved it with you.

But now, it’s just me and this dream, - a dream that will never come true.

to Berry.