I stare at the computer screen, uncertain.

It’s been a while now, probably a few minutes too many. No, I’m not working though I am at work. Nor am I watching videos on Youtube or using my social media account; what I’m mindlessly staring at are the e-visas and flight tickets for my wife and 6 month old daughter. They are to fly tomorrow to meet my in-laws in Dubai.

“I want to go home.” she sobs.

“And this is your solution? To run away?”

“I am not running away. I want to meet my parents. I miss them.” Her precise, well-pronounced words fail to conceal the rage.

I sigh.

I look at our daughter who is fast asleep between two pillows on the bed. ‘She is only six months old,’ I wish to remind my wife. ‘Why put her through the stress of flying? Why can’t you wait until she turn a year old?’

Another exasperated sigh finds its way to my lips again.

“When do you want to go?” I ask.

“Next week.”

“Alright…” I scratch my forehead, eyes closed. “Okay…for how long?”

“I don’t know.”

“A month?” I ask.

She stares at me, then glances at our daughter. “You want us to go away for a month?”

Okay. Now I am annoyed.

“The reports,” my manager pokes his head into my cubicle.

I stand up involuntarily, waking out of my thoughts. “Yeah, John. Nearly done. You’ll have it before twelve.”

“Sharp twelve, then?” the manager asked.

I glance at my watch. “Before twelve-fifteen.”

John winks, and then leaves.

I drop into my seat.

“The reports,” I mutter, closing all irrelevant documents before I open an Excel file.

***

“You can’t bear to stay in this house, can you?” I ask, and not very politely. “Might as well go for an entire month.”

She crosses her arms. “So you are not going to miss us.”

I become grumpy.

“You're not going to miss her?”

She’s talking about our daughter. Now I’m pissed off.

“What else do you want me to do?” I snap. “You can’t stay in this house. You don’t like my parents. What else do you want me to do?”

She smirks. “My point exactly: we are living with your parents. So you don’t know what it is like to be away from them.”

The scent of the sandwich returns me to the present.

It smells delicious, and looks great.

I’m quick to bite, and just then I see a colleague wave his hand out to me from across the cafeteria. I smile and wave back. He owes me BD 100 and it has been over three months now.

Such a gentleman.

I look at my sandwich.

“A lot of people choose to live with their parents. I choose the same,” I say. “It isn’t their fault that you don’t like them.”

“Oh, don’t pretend as though you worship mine!” she counters.

She has a point.

I try to gather my cool, and some air. “A month would be perfect. We both need a break.”

There. I said it. But it hurts. It hurts so bad.

She sighs, her shoulders dropped. “Maybe you are right. We need a break.”

My chest feels heavy.

‘Please don’t go,’ I wish to say. ‘Why can’t you make peace with my folks?’

“I want to go next week.” she affirms her intent.

‘The baby stays here with me,’ I wish to say, but I nod quietly instead. Quotes from the internet begin to flood my mind:

What goes around comes around.

If you really love her, let her go.

She wants peace. Let her have it.

I imagine turning into a brute. ‘You’re not going anywhere! Another word about this and you’re gonna get it from me, you hear?’

The sandwich is really good. I think about buying another, but then I try and look at my feet. I can’t see it because my bloated tummy is in the way.

Once again I’m reminded of a potential defeat.

Not happening.

I get up and try not to look at the ‘gentleman’ who owes me BD 100. In the process I end up tripping on the table’s leg, but swiftly gather my poise in the nick of time. No one saw that. Good.

Wait, I see Fathima giggling from a corner of the cafeteria.

My phone rings.

It’s Mathew.

I answer.

“Hey, did you hear about this corona virus? It’s pretty bad. They’re asking everyone to wear masks and avoid personal contact. Even flights to Dubai and Sharjah are being cancelled from tomorrow…”

Mathew goes on about a few more things, but I hear very little. There is something going on inside me.

Am I smiling?

‘Flights to Dubai cancelled? Such a shame.’ I wish to say.