17. Janta

CHAPTER 17

Janta

E very morning, my resolve to demonstrate my commitment to Rayna and our daughter Lily strengthens. Despite Rayna's distant manner, I am more determined than ever to prove myself as the partner and father they need.

Each day, I look for new ways to deepen my involvement in the day-to-day tasks of parenting and maintaining our home—responsibilities I might have once overlooked. I load the dishwasher more often, pick up Lily's toys that are strewn around the living room. Today, I even washed an entire load of Lily's laundry and did not mess anything up or turn it a shade it's not supposed to be.

I hear Lily waking up from the monitor on the counter. Hurriedly, I'm there to gently lift her from her crib, her tiny hands reaching out with a trust that reinforces my purpose.

"Good morning my girl," I say as I kiss her dark hair. "Are you hungry?"

She makes a cooing sound of approval, and we make our way downstairs.

Rayna enters the kitchen not moments behind us, while I'm warming Lily's oatmeal. Despite how hard I try to let her sleep in, it's like she has an internal mother clock that lets her know exactly when Lily is up.

She strolls over to Lily, and kisses her on the nose. Lily's eyes look up to her fondly.

"Good morning, would you like some breakfast?" I ask, trying to crack her icy demeanor.

"I'm okay, but thanks." She says as she goes to the fridge, grabs a protein shake and sits down beside Lily's highchair.

I try to connect by sharing updates about Lily's day so far, from her new sound this morning to how she giggled when I dropped the milk earlier. Rayna just responds with a nod and a fleeting smile. I wrack my brain trying to figure out what I can do to get her to lower her walls she's built back.

Tonight I decide to surprise her with a gesture that I hope will bridge the distance between us, even if just for the evening.

I sent Rayna out on a late-night errand for something Lily needed. I made sure to wear Lily out today when we played, so she would be willing to go to bed a little earlier. She fell asleep with ease, while I rocked her in her nursery humming theme songs to television shows I remember as a child. I'm still working on learning nursery rhymes, but Rome wasn't built in a day you know.

I look out the window as the sun begins to set, casting a warm glow through the kitchen. I tie the apron around my waist and set out to prepare a special dinner just for the two of us.

I'm cooking Rayna's favorite dish: rosemary chicken with garlic mashed potatoes and steamed asparagus. I remember the first time we had it—she made me watch her dutifully while she made it, saying I needed to practice on my cooking skills, because children can't live off grilled cheese and macaroni; two things that I am excellent at making, might I add. That memory brings a smile to my face as I chop the herbs.

When everything is nearly ready, I set the table. I dim the lights and light the candles, transforming our usual dining area into a more intimate setting.

Just as I'm placing the final dish on the table, I hear the front door open. Rayna walks in, with a handful of bags, when she turns the corner her face transitions from weariness to surprise as she takes in the aroma and candlelit setting.

"Janta, did you do all this for us?" she asks, curiosity leaking into her voice.

"Yes," I reply, my heart kicking up. "Just a quiet dinner for us. I thought we could use some time to relax and just enjoy the evening together."

She looks around frantically. "Where is Lily?" she asks.

"The princess played extra hard with her daddy today, and I gave her a bath, read her the unicorn book, and she was out like a light," I say with a smile.

Her eyes soften, scanning the effort laid out before her, and for a moment, it felt like the walls between us thinned. She smiles genuinely, and it was a smile I have missed profoundly.

We sit down, and as we begin to eat, I can see her relaxing, the tension easing from her shoulders.

I watch as Rayna takes a bite of her chicken, her eyes lighting up with approval, and I feel a swell of pride.

"Remember the first time you tried to teach me to cook?" I ask, a grin spreading across my face as the memory surfaces.

Rayan chuckles, nodding. "How could I forget? You tried to impress me by flipping the pancakes without a spatula, and it ended up on the ceiling. Then the kitchen almost burned down."

We burst into laughter, the sound richer and more freeing than anything that has filled these walls in months. It's these moments, these carefree exchanges, that remind me of the ease we once shared.

"I was so embarrassed," I admit, still laughing. "I was sure you'd never want to step into a kitchen with me again."

"More like angry," she quips. "But I did, didn't I? Just to see if you'd do it again," she teases, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

We talk, more freely than we have in weeks, about mundane things—work, the weather, a funny story from my day.

The evening unfolds beautifully, each laugh, each shared memory, weaving a gentle thread of connection between us. As we clear the dishes together, Rayna pauses.

"Thank you," she says, her hand brushing mine, a simple touch, but laden with unspoken words and possibilities. "I needed this."

Her words, simple yet laden with meaning, bolster my hope. "Me too," I respond earnestly, meeting her gaze.

Tonight, I didn't just cook a meal; I kindled hope, the hope that this evening might be a stepping stone back to the closeness we once cherished. As she smiles at me over the flicker of candlelight, I feel a surge of optimism.

As we finish clearing up after our meal, I feel a profound shift within me. The walls that had grown between us, once seemingly insurmountable, now appear less formidable, softened by shared laughter and reminiscences. I sense the gentle crumble of these barriers with every smile and word exchanged tonight.

We move to the living room, settling onto the couch with a glass of wine. The comfort of the night wraps around us like a familiar blanket. Rayna tucks her feet under her, a casual intimacy that I've missed. It's these small gestures, so easily overlooked, that now stand out to me as signs of thawing ice.

As we talk, I am keenly aware of her presence, not just physically but emotionally and mentally too. She is more open, her laughter more genuine than it has been in months.

"I've missed this," I confess, the words slipping out amidst our conversation about a book we both enjoyed years ago.

Rayna pauses, her eyes meeting mine. "Me too," she admits, and the sincerity in her voice tugs at my heart. "I didn't realize how much until now."

Encouraged by her openness, I reach across the small space between us, taking her hand in mine. She doesn't pull away; instead, she squeezes my hand gently, a silent acknowledgment of our mutual nostalgia and perhaps, mutual desire to mend what has been frayed.

"We got caught up in so much, didn't we?" I say softly, not wanting to disrupt the fragile peace we are weaving.

"We did," she agrees, her thumb brushing against mine. "But maybe we needed this time to remember what's important."

As we continue talking, each topic flowing more smoothly into the next, I feel a deep-seated optimism bloom within me. The connection we are rebuilding feels both old and new, familiar yet filled with possibilities. It's as if we are mapping out the contours of our relationship anew, discovering pathways we never fully explored.

Rayna leans her head against my shoulder, a contented sigh escapes her, I realize that this evening has been a turning point. I'm resolved now more than ever to continue this gentle, patient work of rebuilding, confident that each shared moment like tonight brings us closer to the warmth and love we once took for granted.

She looks up at me for a moment, her eyes seeming to say what her words will not. That she wants this, she wants to fix things. But as I lean in, eager to capture the feeling in something as simple as a kiss, she hesitates and pulls back slightly. In that moment, the air between us thickens with unsaid things, her eyes searching mine again for something I hope I can give.

"Sorry, I…" she starts, her voice trailing off, unable to find the right words.

I gently squeeze her hand, offering a smile that I hope conveys understanding rather than disappointment. "It's okay," I assure her. "There's no rush."

She nods, visibly relieved by my response, but the shadow of uncertainty doesn't quite leave her face. We remain close, physically, our hands still intertwined, but there's a new, silent acknowledgment of the complexities we're still navigating.

"I want to make sure we're doing this right," Rayna confesses, her gaze fixed on our hands. "Not just falling back into old patterns because it's comfortable or familiar. I don't want this to go up in flames and Lily be the one to suffer."

Her words strike a chord within me. She's right, of course. As much as I desire to reclaim the closeness we once took for granted, I recognize the importance of rebuilding on a foundation that's stronger and more thoughtful than before.

"I agree," I reply, my voice firm with resolve. "We should take the time we need to understand each other again. To build something lasting."

Rayna looks up, her eyes meeting mine once again, and I see a flicker of hope there. "I do miss us," she admits softly, "I miss this… us being us."

"And we can be ‘us' again," I say, "on new terms, at a pace that feels right for both of us."

We settle into a comfortable silence, the kind that speaks of a shared understanding rather than awkwardness.

I realize that rebuilding trust and intimacy isn't about grand gestures or perfectly scripted moments; it's about these real, raw interactions where honesty leads, even when it's wrapped in hesitation. As the night draws to a close, I am thankful for this, for the chance to move forward together, understanding more with each shared moment.