The taxi sat idling in front of Nana's house, the driver already loading Zayne's bag. The entire neighborhood had gathered to witness the goodbye—because of course they had. Privacy didn't exist in this village.
Lili was crying openly, clinging to Zayne's leg like a barnacle. "Don't go! You just got here! Who will carry me piggyback? Who will look at my drawings?"
Zayne knelt down to her level, gently wiping her tears. "I'll come back. I promise. And—" He pulled out his phone. "You can send me pictures of your drawings. Your sister has my number. I want to see every single one, okay?"
"Even the potato-chicken?"
"Especially the potato-chicken. It's my favorite."
She threw her small arms around his neck, squeezing tight. "You're the best prince ever. Don't forget about us in the big city."
"Never." He hugged her back, this child who'd claimed him as family so easily.
"I could never forget you."
The twins were next, both crying despite their attempts to look mature.
"Come back soon, okay? Nana's been smiling more since you came. We like when she's happy."
"I'll do my best," he promised.
Meimei approached with her characteristic composure, though her eyes were suspiciously bright. "Thank you. For—for seeing her. Really seeing her. She deserves that."
"I know she does." Zayne's voice was soft.
"I'll take care of her. I promise."
"You better. Or we'll hunt you down." She smiled. "We know where you work."
Nana's mother pulled him into a warm hug, and Zayne stiffened for just a moment—he still wasn't used to casual physical affection—before relaxing into it.
"You're always welcome here," she said, patting his back. "Always. You're family now."
Family.
That word again. Landing in his chest and taking root.
"Thank you" he managed. "For everything. For accepting me. For—"
For being the family I never had. He couldn't say it without crying. "Thank you."
She pulled back, maternal eyes understanding everything he couldn't say.
"Go on. Say goodbye to our girl properly. These nosy neighbors can wait."
As if on cue, the gathered aunties whistled and called out encouragement:
"Give her a kiss!"
"Don't be shy, doctor!"
"Young people these days, so modest!"
"In my day, we were more direct!"
Nana looked like she wanted the earth to swallow her whole. Her face was bright red, and she was studiously avoiding his eyes, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Zayne couldn't help but smile. Even embarrassed, she was beautiful.
He opened his arms—a question, an invitation. The neighborhood collectively held its breath.
Nana glanced at the audience, at her siblings, at the smirking aunties. Then, slowly, she stepped forward into his embrace.
She fit perfectly against his chest. Like she was made to be there. Her small frame tucked against him, her head resting over his heart. His arms wrapped around her naturally, holding her close.
"I don't want you to go," she whispered, so quietly only he could hear.
"I don't want to go either." He rested his chin on top of her head, breathing in the scent of her—apples and cinnamon and home.
"But I have patients scheduled. Surgeries. Responsibilities."
"I know. I'm being selfish."
"You being human." He pulled back just enough to cup her face in his hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks. Her eyes were red, tears threatening to spill. "Hey. I'll call you tonight. Every night. And I'll visit as soon as I can. Two weeks, maybe three—"
"That's so long." A tear escaped. She tried to laugh it off. "Sorry, I'm being ridiculous. It's just two weeks—"
"It feels like forever to me too," he admitted. He wiped her tear away gently, memorizing this moment—her face tipped up toward his, surrounded by her family, the village watching, the afternoon sun making her eyes shimmer. "I'm going to miss you. So much."
"I'll miss you more."
"Impossible." He smiled softly. "I'm already counting the hours until I can come back."
"Aiya, just kiss her already!" one of the aunties shouted. "The taxi driver is getting impatient!"
They both laughed despite their tears.
Zayne pressed a soft kiss to her forehead—tender, chaste, appropriate for their very public audience—and whispered against her skin: "I love you. Don't forget that while I'm gone."
"I love you too," she whispered back.
"Be safe. Eat properly. Don't work too hard."
"I'll try." He reluctantly stepped back, already missing her warmth. "Take care of yourself. And text me when you get home from work. Every night. I need to know you're safe."
"I will. I promise."
He forced himself to get into the taxi. Forced himself not to look back until the last possible moment. When he finally did, Nana was waving—standing with her siblings, her mother's hand on her shoulder, the entire village gathered around her like a protective cocoon.
As the taxi pulled away, he heard the aunties already gossiping:
"Did you see how he looked at her?"
"like she hung the moon!"
"That doctor could marry anyone—rich city girls, educated women—but he chose our Nana!"
"That's real love. Man's love is so strong when it's genuine..."
"I give it two months before he proposes!"
Zayne smiled despite the ache in his chest. The aunties might be right.
Two months. Maybe less. He was already planning how to make this permanent.
.
.
.
.
.
The apartment was dark and cold when Zayne returned late that evening. He'd taken the last flight, too exhausted to care about efficiency or timing. The three-hour journey back felt endless, every kilometer taking him farther from where he wanted to be.
He unlocked his door, already composing the text to Nana in his head—I'm home safe. Miss you already.—when he realized the apartment wasn't empty.
Lights were on in his living room. Voices drifted toward him.
He froze.
"—needs to understand this is his future we're discussing, not some romantic fantasy—"
His mother's voice. Sharp, cutting, familiar.
Zayne closed his eyes briefly, gathering patience he didn't have, and walked into his own living room.
Both of his parents sat on the couch—his father looking uncomfortable, his mother rigid with determination. And there, in the chair by the window, was Melissa. Again.
"What are you doing here?" Zayne's voice was flat, exhausted. "All of you. In my apartment. Uninvited."
"We need to talk," his mother said, standing. "Seriously. About this—this insanity with that village girl."
"Her name is Nana."
"I don't care what her name is!" His mother's composure cracked. "You took vacation time—precious vacation time—to visit a rural village? To spend time with an uneducated girl who works in a supermarket? Zayne, this is beneath you. This is—"
"Enough." His father spoke quietly, but with authority. "Let him speak."
Zayne looked at his father—really looked at him. When had he gotten so old? When had the lines around his eyes deepened, his hair gone completely gray? They'd been so absent from his life that Zayne had stopped tracking the passage of time on their faces.
"You want me to speak?" Zayne set down his bag carefully, precisely. "Fine. I'll speak. But first, tell me—why now? Why this sudden interest in my personal life? You didn't care when I was three years old and crying for you every night. You didn't care when I was eighteen and graduated top of my class. You didn't care last year when I won international recognition for my research. So why now? Why this sudden urgency to control who I love?"
"We've always cared—" his mother started.
"No." Zayne's voice was sharp. "You cared about your careers. Your research. Your reputations. You cared about sending money and checking boxes—'son is fed, educated, alive'—but you never cared about me. About what I needed. What I wanted. Who I was."
His mother's face paled. "That's not fair—"
"Fair?" Something broke in Zayne's carefully controlled voice. "Fair? I'll tell you what's not fair. Having parents who left you with your grandparents 'temporarily' and never came back. Celebrating every birthday alone. Calling you in emergencies and getting voicemail because you were 'in surgery' or 'at a conference.' Watching you choose strangers' lives over your own son's, every single time."
"We were building our careers—"
"You were abandoning your child!" The words exploded out of him. "And now, NOW, you appear in my apartment uninvited to tell me who I should marry? To push this woman—" He gestured to Melissa, who looked deeply uncomfortable, "—at me like she's some kind of solution to a problem you created?"
His mother stood, hands shaking.
"Melissa is suitable. Educated. From a good family. She understands your world—
" I don't want someone who understands my world " Zayne's voice cracked. "I want someone who makes me want to build a different world, Someone who sees me as a person, not a resume. Someone who—" He stopped, gathering himself. "You want to compare? Fine. Let's compare."
He turned to Melissa. "I'm sorry. You seem like a lovely person. But this isn't about you. This is about what they want versus what I need."
Melissa nodded, clearly wishing she was anywhere else.
Zayne turned back to his mother.
"You want me to choose Melissa because she's independent, educated, doesn't 'need' me. Because she has her own career, her own life, won't interfere with mine. Because she's like you—someone who prioritizes work over everything else."
"That's how modern marriages work—
"That's how YOUR marriage works," Zayne interrupted. "Two people living parallel lives. Successful but separate. Efficient but empty. Is that what you want for me? What you think I need?"
"It's practical—"
"I don't want practical!" The shout surprised all of them, including Zayne. He took a breath, forced his voice level.
"I want someone who cares if I eat. Who notices when I'm exhausted and makes me rest. Who makes soup that tastes like home because she understands that sometimes people need comfort more than optimal nutrition."
His mother opened her mouth, but he wasn't finished.
"Nana cooks for me. Not because she's subservient or traditional or whatever judgment you're making. But because that's how she shows love. She makes food—real food, homemade food—because she learned that caring for someone means nourishing them. She covers me with blankets when I fall asleep working. She texts me to make sure I'm safe. She SEES me, Mother. Not Dr. Li. Not the surgeon. Not the achievement. Just Zayne. Just the person you never bothered to know."
"That's not true—" His mother's voice wavered.
"Isn't it?" Zayne's laugh was bitter. "Tell me one thing about me that isn't related to medicine or academics. One hobby. One fear. One dream I have that doesn't involve a hospital. Go ahead. I'll wait."
Silence.
His father cleared his throat. "Zayne—
"And you." Zayne turned to him. "You're better than her. You at least pretend to care. But you're still here, still letting her push this agenda, still not standing up and saying 'maybe our son knows what he needs better than we do.'"
His father looked down. "I just want you to be happy."
"Then support me!" Zayne's voice cracked. "Support me choosing someone who makes me happy! Not someone who looks good on paper or fits some image of what a surgeon's wife should be!"
"But what can this girl offer you?" His mother was crying now, mascara running. "What does she have that Melissa doesn't? Education? Career? Independence?"
"She has a heart." Zayne's voice went soft. "She has kindness. She has siblings she raised from childhood. She has a strength that comes from surviving things that would break most people. She works three jobs and still finds time to make sure an old man isn't lonely. She climbs trees and makes jam and teaches me how to laugh. She makes me want to be better. Not more successful—better. More human. More real."
He looked his mother in the eyes. "You keep saying I need an independent woman who doesn't need me. But Mother—I WANT to be needed. I want someone who lets me take care of them. Who lets me be soft instead of always strong. Who sees vulnerability as connection, not weakness."
"You want someone weak and dependent—"
"I want someone who understands that needing someone isn't weakness!" Zayne's voice rose again. "That cooking for your partner isn't servitude! That caring for children isn't a waste of potential! You see Nana as less-than because she doesn't have degrees or career ambitions. But she has something you never had—she has love to give. Freely. Without conditions. Without measuring whether I'm worth the investment."
His mother sank back onto the couch, something breaking in her expression.
"You know what the saddest thing is?"
Zayne's voice went quiet. "You failed at caring for me. You chose your careers, left me behind, missed my entire childhood. And now you're here, in my home, trying to make me repeat your mistakes. Trying to make me choose a partner who will prioritize work over family, achievement over connection. You want me to marry someone like you—someone who will leave our future children crying at train stations, wondering why they're not enough."
"Zayne—" His mother's voice broke. "I—we did what we thought was best—"
"Best for who?" He asked softly. "Not for me. Maybe for your careers. Maybe for your research. But not for the three-year-old boy who needed his mother and got quarterly video calls instead."
room fell into heavy silence.
His father finally spoke. "You really love her? This girl?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "More than I thought I could love anyone. She makes me feel human again. She makes me want to build a home, not just maintain a residence. She makes me think about futures I never dared to imagine—family dinners, children's laughter, growing old with someone who actually wants to be there."
"And she loves you?" his father asked.
"She does. I don't know why—I'm terrible at emotions, I work too much, I'm learning how to be a person from scratch. But she loves me anyway. She sees all my broken parts and doesn't run away."
His father nodded slowly. "Then I support you." He looked at his wife. "We should go."
"But—" His mother looked between them, tears streaming.
"We lost the right to choose for him when we left him behind," his father said gently.
"He's grown up. He's brilliant. He's capable of making his own decisions. And if this girl makes him happy—truly happy, not just comfortable—then we should support that."
"She's not what I wanted for him—"
"Neither were we, apparently." His father's voice was soft but cutting.
"And he turned out far better than we deserved. Come on. Let's go."
Melissa had already fled to the doorway. His father stood, helped his mother up.
At the door, his mother turned back. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't—I never realized—"
"I know," Zayne said, exhausted. "But sorry doesn't change the past. It just—it just is what it is."
"Can I—" She paused. "Can I at least meet her? This girl who makes you happy?"
Zayne considered. Then: "If she wants to meet you. I won't force her to face people who think she's not good enough."
His mother flinched but nodded. "Fair enough."
They left. Finally. Zayne closed the door and leaned against it, suddenly drained.
His phone buzzed. A text from Nana:
Got home safe from walking Lili to her friend's house. Everyone misses you already. The house feels so quiet without your laughter. Hope you got home okay? —N
Despite everything, he smiled. He typed back:
Home safe. Long day. Can I call you? I need to hear your voice.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Always. I'll go to my room for privacy.
A minute later, his phone rang. He answered immediately.
"Hi" her voice came through, warm and concerned. "Are you okay? You sound tired."
"I am tired." He moved to his couch, sinking into it. "My parents were here. With Melissa. Again."
"Oh no." Sympathy flooded her voice. "What happened?"
"I told them the truth. About everything. About choosing you. About needing you. About—" He paused. "About how they failed me and I refuse to repeat their mistakes."
Silence. Then, softly: "How do you feel?"
Not 'what did they say' or 'what happened next.' Just—how do you feel?
This, Zayne thought. This is why I love her.
"Exhausted," he admitted. "Free, maybe. I don't know. I said things I've needed to say for twenty years."
"I'm proud of you." Her voice was fierce. "That takes so much courage."
"I kept thinking about you. About us. About the life we could build." He closed his eyes. "And I realized—I don't want their version of success. I want yours. Family dinners. Siblings arguing. Children's laughter. Home-cooked meals. Real love."
"Zayne—" Her voice cracked. "You really mean that?"
"Every word." He paused. "My mother asked if she could meet you. I said only if you want to."
"I—" She sounded uncertain. "I don't know if I'm ready. She doesn't think I'm good enough for you."
"She's wrong. And she knows it now." His voice softened. "But there's no pressure. We move at your pace. Always."
"Okay." A pause. "Zayne?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you For choosing me. Even when it's hard. Even when they push you toward easier options. Thank you for choosing me anyway."
"Always," he promised. "I'll choose you every time, Nana. Every single time."
They talked for another hour—about nothing and everything, about his day and hers, about Lili's new drawing and the twins' latest drama obsession.
When they finally hung up, Zayne looked around his empty apartment. It was still cold, still sterile, still nothing like a home.
But it wouldn't be empty forever.
Soon, he'd bring her here. Show her his world. Find an apartment big enough for a family. Build the life his parents never gave him—full of warmth and laughter and love that didn't come with conditions.
Soon.
But for now, he had work tomorrow. Patients to save. Lives to preserve.
And every night, he had her voice on the phone, reminding him what he was working toward.
Not just survival.
But a life worth living.
.
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.
.
To be continued __