His Greatest Regret

TARIK

The ballroom of the Peninsula glitters gold under a dozen chandeliers, and I stand near the bar with a glass of champagne I haven’t touched. Around me, men in tailored suits and women in cocktail dresses cluster in small groups, all of them here because of the deal I closed three hours ago. The Hendricks Tower. Four hundred million dollars, my name on the blueprints, my firm’s name about to be on every real estate blog in the city by morning.

“Tarik Bennett.” A hand claps my shoulder. Richard Hale, the lead investor, grins at me like I’ve handed him a winning lottery ticket. “You just made me a very happy man.”

“That was the goal.” I shake his hand, easy, confident. This is the part I’m good at.

“I’ve been in this business for thirty years. I don’t say this often.” He leans in. “You’re going to run this city one day.”

My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. Sophia’s name lights up the screen. I silence it without looking twice and slide it back into my pocket. Whatever it is, it can wait. Everything at home can always wait.

“To Tarik,” someone calls, raising a glass, and the group lifts their drinks. I lift mine too, let the moment settle over me like the scotch I’ll pour myself when I finally get home—later, much later, once every investor in this room remembers my name over everyone else’s.

My phone buzzes again. Three times in a row. I sigh and step toward the windows overlooking the park before answering, more annoyed than concerned.

“What,” I say. Not a question.

“Tarik, where are you?” Sophia’s voice is tight. “You said six. It’s almost eight.”

“I’m working, Sophia. This is the biggest night of my career.”

“It’s Malik’s birthday.” Her voice cracks. “He’s three years old, Tarik. He doesn’t understand why you’re not here. He kept looking to the front door every time it creaked, waiting for it to be you.”

Something about that lands somewhere I don’t let myself examine. I push past it. “He’s three. He won’t remember any of this.”

“He’ll remember what it feels like, even if he doesn’t remember why.” A shaky breath on the other end. “He wouldn’t eat his cake. He just cried until he wore himself out.”

“So put him to bed. I’ll see him tomorrow.” I glance back at the ballroom, where Richard is telling a story with his hands, the whole circle laughing on cue. I want to be back in it.

“You keep saying tomorrow.” Her voice has gone quiet, and quiet from Sophia is worse than yelling. “I have people here I need to talk to. People who actually appreciate what I bring to the table.”

I don’t correct what I said, don’t take it back. “I have investors waiting on me, Sophia.”

“Are you saying I don’t appreciate you?”

“I’m saying I don’t have time for this right now.”

“He’s your son. You don’t have time for your son.”

“Don’t do that.” My jaw tightens. “I told you what tonight was. You knew what you signed up for when you married me.”

The line goes dead.

I stand there a second, phone still in my ear, the party noise swelling behind me. Then I pocket it, roll my shoulders back, and walk into the room wearing the face everyone here wants to shake hands with. By the time I reach Richard again, I’ve already stopped thinking about the call.

SOPHIA

I sit on the floor of the nursery long after Malik’s breathing has evened into sleep, watching the soft rise and fall of his small chest in his crib. The room glows faintly from the nightlight shaped like a moon, the one Tarik picked out before Malik was even born, back when he still came to appointments, still put his hand on my stomach at night like he couldn’t wait to meet him.

Tonight there was a cake with a single flickering “3” candle, and a room full of people who love him—my mother, my sister, a few friends from the building—and one empty chair he kept looking toward every time the door creaked. By the end he wouldn’t touch his cake. He just cried, exhausted, rubbing his eyes with his fists until he wore himself out in my arms.

He’s warm tonight, warmer than usual, his small body working overtime the way it’s been doing more and more these past months. The doctors say it’s nothing, that his fevers come and go, that his heart is strong. But I know my son. I know when something in him has gone quiet in a way that has nothing to do with fevers.

He’s too young to ask where his father is. But he still reaches for the door. He still turns his head at every sound that isn’t quite right. Some part of him already knows.

I hear the front door around eleven. Tarik’s footsteps in the hallway—unhurried, light, the walk of a man who has already decided tonight went fine. I meet him in the kitchen before he makes it to the stairs.

He’s still in his suit, tie loosened, and there’s a satisfaction on his face that hasn’t faded, even now, even here, even after the call.

“Is he asleep?” He sets his keys on the counter without looking at me.

“Hours ago.” I fold my arms. “He cried until he couldn’t anymore. He kept crawling to the door, Tarik. He knew someone was missing.”

“He’s two. He doesn’t know anything.” He opens the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, doesn’t give me a second of his eyes.

“He knows enough to reach for you and not find you there.”

He shuts the fridge, finally looks at me, and there’s nothing soft in it. “Someone has to pay for this house, for his doctors, for everything you keep insisting he needs. That’s what tonight was for.”

“He doesn’t need more doctors right now, Tarik. He needed his father for his birthday.” My voice shakes, but I don’t let it break. “Get him something tomorrow. Tell him it’s from you.”

“Neither is providing for this family, and somebody has to actually do it.” He continues up the stairs, and the words land the way they’re meant to—a door closing.

I stand alone in the kitchen for a long moment, listening to him move around upstairs, indifferent, unhurried, like nothing about tonight requires anything more from him than it already has.

I press my palms flat against the counter and breathe until the shaking in my chest settles. This isn’t who he was. I remind myself of that most nights now—the man who used to leave notes in my lunch bag when we both worked downtown, who cried in the delivery room, who promised me always, no matter what. That man is still in there somewhere, buried under deadlines and whatever it is he’s chasing that I can’t seem to compete with.

I go back upstairs to check on Malik one more time and smooth his curls off his damp forehead. He stirs but doesn't wake.

I linger a moment longer than I need to, listening. His breathing is even, in and out, nothing wrong with it. But there's the faintest catch at the end of each breath tonight — so small I almost miss it, so small I tell myself I imagined it.

I pull his blanket up to his chin and tell myself it's nothing. I've told myself that before.