poopyboy123456
Isha Khanna, am married to Aryan Khanna (I have always loved him, but does he?)
I watch him from the kitchen doorway, and it's like watching a movie I wasn't invited to star in.
Aryan is sitting on the rug, his expensive white shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing those forearms that still make my breath hitch. Moksh-our eleven-month-old ball of rolls and chaos-is perched on his lap, happily trying to chew on Aryan's silver watch.
"Careful, champion," Aryan murmurs, his voice dripping with a warmth he never wastes on me. He tickles Moksh's chunky thighs, making the baby let out a wheezing, toothless giggle that fills the room.
Then, the doorbell rings. It's the neighbor, Neha.
In a split second, the "Doting Dad" shifts. Aryan looks up, flashes that devastating, dimpled smirk that has probably been illegal in three states, and throws out a witty comment about Neha's new haircut. He's charming. He's effortless. He's the man I've loved since I was two years old.
Then his eyes land on me, and the light snuffs out.
"Isha, Moksh needs a diaper change. And can you move your laptop? It's cluttering the coffee table."
No joke. No smirk. Not even a "How was your day?" To him, I'm just the woman who brought his favorite person into the world. I'm the "annoying" girl from his childhood who managed to trap him into a marriage and a mortgage.
He loves the son we made. He just wishes someone else had been the one to make him.