Where You Are, I Call Home

There were many things Avi knew about marriage. He knew marriage was supposed to involve two people. He knew married couples were supposed to talk. He knew they were supposed to argue over stupid things, complain about money, fight over the television remote, celebrate anniversaries, and occasionally pretend they had forgotten an anniversary when they absolutely had not. He knew husbands were generally expected to know what their wives looked like. And wives were generally expected to know what their husbands looked like. Avi knew all of that. Unfortunately, none of it applied to him. Because Avi had been married for three years. And he had never met his husband. Not properly, anyway. He had seen him once. For approximately seventeen minutes. Three years ago. At a courthouse. They had stood beside each other, signed a marriage certificate, taken a photograph that looked more like evidence from a crime scene than a wedding picture, and then gone their separate ways. That was it. No honeymoon. No wedding night. No awkward first breakfast together. No meeting of families filled with embarrassing childhood stories. No first argument. No first kiss. Not even a proper introduction. Avi didn’t even know his husband’s favorite color. He didn’t know whether the man drank coffee or tea. He didn’t know if he snored. He didn’t know what side of the bed he slept on. He didn’t know whether his husband liked dogs. Or cats. Or people. For all Avi knew, the man could have hated everyone equally. Which, honestly, would have made two of them. Avi sat behind his enormous mahogany desk and stared at the marriage certificate lying inside the drawer he had just opened. He stared at it for several seconds. Then he sighed. “Three years.” His secretary, who had been standing outside the half-open office door, froze. Avi looked up. “What?” “Nothing, sir.” “You were listening.” “I was not.” “You literally answered before I asked anything.” The secretary lowered her head. “Sorry, sir.” Avi leaned back in his chair. He was twenty-five years old, a lawyer, financially comfortable, educated, professionally respected, and technically married. Technically. That word had become the foundation of his entire life. Technically, he had a husband. Technically, he had a marital home. Technically, he was somebody’s spouse. Technically, he had a family. And technically, he was supposed to be happy. The problem was that technically did not keep a person warm at night. Avi closed the drawer. “Tell me something.” “Yes, sir?” “Do you think it’s normal to be married for three years and not know your husband’s phone number?” The secretary blinked. “I… don’t think so.” “Good.” Avi nodded seriously. “At least I’m not completely unreasonable.” The secretary hesitated. “Sir?” “Yes?” “Doesn’t your husband have your number?” Avi stared at her. She immediately looked terrified. Avi slowly smiled. “That’s the funny part.” There was a pause. “I don’t know.” And that was the truth. He didn’t know. He didn’t know where his husband lived. Well, he knew the man’s family owned properties all over the country. He knew the company name. He knew the man’s surname. He knew his father was one of the most powerful men in the corporate world. He knew enough to recognize the man’s name in newspapers. But he didn’t know the man. Not really. And somehow, that was Avi’s marriage. Three years of silence. Three years of empty rooms. Three years of living in a house everyone called his marital home even though it had never felt like one. The house was enormous. Ridiculously enormous. There were marble floors, crystal chandeliers, more bedrooms than any reasonable family needed, maids who appeared before he asked for anything, and a kitchen large enough to feed a small army. Yet every evening when Avi came home from work, the house felt strangely quiet. He would walk through the front doors. Someone would take his briefcase. Someone would ask whether he wanted dinner. Someone would remind him that his clothes had been arranged for the next morning. Then Avi would go upstairs. Alone. Every night. For three years. Sometimes he wondered if the staff had started feeling sorry for him. Other times, he wondered if they had simply accepted that the man of the house was married to a ghost. Because that was what it felt like. He was married to a ghost. A husband who had never called. Never texted. Never visited. Never sent flowers. Never sent a birthday gift. Never asked whether Avi was well. Nothing. Not even a simple How are you? And Avi hated himself for admitting it, but sometimes he wondered whether his husband had forgotten that he existed. Then again, perhaps forgetting someone you had never known was easier. Avi looked at the clock. Six forty-five. He had been working for almost twelve hours. His eyes were burning. His stomach was empty. His patience had died somewhere around four in the afternoon. He picked up his phone. No messages. He refreshed it. Nothing. He frowned. Still nothing. “Wonderful.” He dropped the phone onto the desk. Avi had long ago stopped expecting his husband to call. At first, he had waited. The first month, he had checked his phone constantly. The second month, he had told himself his husband was probably busy. The third month, he had convinced himself that perhaps there had been some misunderstanding. By the sixth month, he stopped checking. By the first anniversary, he had stopped caring. Or at least, he told himself he had. But sometimes, usually late at night when the house became painfully quiet, he would wonder. Who are you? Why did you marry me? Why did you leave? And the question that frightened him most— Why haven’t you come back? Avi had never wanted this marriage. At least, he didn’t think he had. The strange thing was that he couldn’t remember the exact moment he had agreed. He remembered his father sitting in the study. He remembered the thick folder on the table. He remembered his mother’s weak voice from upstairs. He remembered his father talking about debts. Companies. Investments. Partnerships. Power. He remembered the word marriage being mentioned. And then he remembered silence. His own silence. That was the part Avi could never explain. He had been twenty-two. Fresh out of law school. He had spent years studying the law, learning about rights, freedom, justice, consent, and the power of choice. Yet when it came to his own life, he had simply sat there and allowed his father to decide everything. Maybe it was because his mother was sick. Maybe it was because her heart condition had worsened. Maybe it was because his father had looked him directly in the eyes and told him that refusing the marriage would destroy the family. Maybe it was because Avi had spent his entire childhood learning one very important lesson: In his family, obedience was disguised as love. His father called it duty. His grandmother called it tradition. His relatives called it sacrifice. Avi called it suffocation. The men in his family were powerful. They owned companies. They controlled properties. They sat on boards. They knew politicians, judges, businessmen, bankers. They could destroy someone’s career with one phone call and build another person’s empire with another. Money wasn’t simply something his family had. Money was how they breathed. Power wasn’t something they wanted. Power was something they believed they deserved. And Avi? Avi had always been the odd one. He didn’t like the way they treated people. He didn’t enjoy using money to control others. He didn’t believe every problem could be solved by throwing cash at it. He had become a lawyer because he believed in justice. His family found that amusing. His father especially. “Justice,” he had once said with a laugh. “You’ll learn soon enough that justice belongs to whoever can afford it.” Avi had hated that sentence. He still did. Yet he had obeyed him. That was the irony. A lawyer who couldn’t defend himself. A man who understood contracts but had somehow signed away his own life. A man who knew exactly what consent meant but couldn’t remember whether he had ever truly given his. And now, three years later, he was still living with the consequences. Avi stood from his chair. “I’m going home.” His secretary nodded. “Your driver is waiting.” “I can drive myself.” “Your father said—” Avi stopped. His jaw tightened. Of course. His father. Always his father. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll take the driver.” He grabbed his coat. As he walked out of the office, his phone suddenly vibrated. Avi stopped. His heart gave one ridiculous little jump. He looked down. Unknown number. For three years, unknown numbers had never meant anything. Clients. Banks. Telemarketers. People who somehow got his number. But something about this one made him hesitate. He answered. “Hello?” Silence. Avi frowned. “Hello?” Nothing. He pulled the phone away and checked the screen. The call was still connected. “Who is this?” A man’s voice finally came through. Low. Calm. Unfamiliar. Yet strangely commanding. “Avi.” Avi froze. Nobody called him like that. Not with that voice. Not with that certainty. His fingers tightened around the phone. “Who is this?” Another silence. Then the man spoke. “I’m sorry it took me three years to call.” Avi stopped breathing. His entire body went still. There were a thousand things he wanted to say. A thousand questions. A thousand insults. But only one came out. “Who are you?” The man exhaled slowly. Then, in a voice that made something cold settle inside Avi’s chest, he answered— “Your husband.” The call ended. Avi stared at the screen. Once. Twice. Three times. His brain refused to process what had just happened. Then his phone rang again. This time, a message appeared. I’m coming home. Avi’s blood ran cold. Because for the first time in three years— his husband was coming home. And Avi suddenly realized something terrifying. He had spent three years wondering why his husband had never come looking for him. He had never stopped to wonder… what had kept him away.