His Second Wife | Three Kinds of Silence

4. Tea That Goes Cold

RAHIM – Six Weeks After

The apartment was drowning in silence.

Even the ceiling fan moved slowly, almost apologetically, as if it too was afraid to break the heavy quiet that had settled between us like a third person in the room. I stood in the narrow kitchen, kettle in hand, listening to the water hiss and bubble. It was the only sound that still felt normal.

Sana sat curled on the sofa in the living room, knees drawn up to her chest, clutching a faded cushion tightly against the place where her belly used to be. She stared at nothing. The sharp-sweet scent of jasmine oil she rubbed into her scars every night hung heavy in the air. It used to make me smile — that familiar smell on her skin before bed. Now it only reminded me of sterile hospital corridors and the way her hand had gone cold in mine that night.

Six weeks. Forty-two days since the truck stole everything from us.

I made her tea exactly the way she liked it — two full spoons of sugar, a generous splash of milk, stirred counterclockwise because she once declared clockwise tasted “wrong.” My hands stayed steady on the spoon. These same hands my mother once called “surgeon’s hands.” Steady on the steering wheel that night too… until they weren’t.

I carried the cup to her and placed it gently on the low table.

She didn’t look up. Her fingers remained wrapped around the cushion like it was the only thing still protecting her. I could tell her scars were itching again by the way her shoulders kept tightening every few seconds. I wanted to sit beside her, push the cushion away, and rub the oil into her skin the way I used to. But my hands felt too guilty, too heavy, too stained with rain and blood and failure.

“Sana,” I said softly.

She finally took the cup. Held it between her palms. Didn’t drink. Steam rose between us like a fragile wall neither of us knew how to cross.

I sat in the old armchair across from her — the one we bought during our first year of marriage when we were poor but stupidly happy. The cushion felt wrong now. Everything felt wrong.

My phone had been ringing all evening. First my Ammu, then two of my colleagues from the firm, then our neighbour Aunty from the second floor. Everyone wanted to “check on us.” Everyone had advice.

I kept replaying those final seconds in my head. Sana’s soft laugh in the car. The way she said, “Daniyal is fine, but I get the middle name.” My hand already reaching for hers. The sudden blinding headlights cutting through the rain. The sickening moment I yanked the wheel — too late. Always too late.

My architect’s mind kept measuring it obsessively: the angle of impact, the speed, the exact millimeter I should have turned sooner. If I had been half a second faster, our son would still be alive. Sana’s body wouldn’t be covered in scars.

The doorbell rang.

I opened it to find Aunty from the second floor standing with a big bowl of chicken soup and halwa.

“Rahim bhai, I made this for both of you,” she said, eyes full of pity. “The whole building is praying. How is Sana apa? Poor girl… losing her first child like this. You both are so young. Inshallah, Allah will give you another one soon. Just keep trying.”

Her words landed like stones in my stomach.

I thanked her politely and closed the door. When I turned around, Sana was watching me. Her eyes were tired but sharp.

“Who was that?” she asked quietly.

“Aunty from upstairs.”

She nodded and looked away.

I sat back in the armchair. Sana lifted the cup to her lips, took the smallest sip, then lowered it again. The tea was already going cold. I watched the steam slowly disappear, the surface becoming still, just like everything else between us.

My mother had called earlier too. “Beta, the whole family is worried. Your Chachas keep asking what the doctors said. A man without a child… people talk. You have to be strong. Sana is young. She can try again.”

I hadn’t told Sana about that call.

She set the untouched cup down. Her fingers drifted back to the cushion, pressing it harder against her empty belly. I saw the tiny flinch when the fabric brushed her scars. I wanted to kneel in front of her, push the cushion aside, and kiss every jagged line. Instead, I remained frozen in the armchair like a coward.

The ceiling fan turned. The jasmine oil drifted. The tea grew colder.

I thought about the closed nursery door down the hall. The unopened packets of tiny clothes. The wall we never painted the color of sunrise over the sea.

Sana’s head eventually tipped sideways against the sofa. She had fallen asleep sitting up again, still clutching that cushion like a lifeline. I watched her the way I used to watch my buildings during construction — searching for the first hairline c***k before everything collapsed.

I loved her more than I knew how to say.

And I hated myself more than she would ever understand.

When I was sure she was fully asleep, I stood up quietly, took the cold cup back to the kitchen, and poured it down the sink. I washed the cup until my hands turned raw. Then I stood at the window, watching the light rain begin to fall again — the same rain that took our son.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the night that could never forgive me.

Behind me, Sana slept on the sofa, still holding the cushion against the place where our future used to live.

And the tea I made for her went cold in the sink… just like everything else between us.