My Husband Buried Our Kids. So I Buried His Legacy. Fair Trade. Chapter 05
She pressed her face into Lucian’s chest, tilted her head up, and grinned at him.
“Dr. Drake, you’re so husband-material. God, I could get used to this.”
Lucian pulled her off—a little rough, a little rushed.
“Grow up. You’re not a kid.”
He turned to me. Cleared his throat.
“It was raining when we landed. We both got soaked. Mira said she wanted to apologize in person, but her clothes were drenched, so I told her to grab something of yours upstairs.”
Mira stuck out her tongue and tilted her head at me.
“Elara, I’m here to say sorry. That thing yesterday? Totally a joke! If you’re really worried, I’ll go on a blind date this weekend—find some random guy and get married. Won’t get in your way at all—”
“Mira. Stop.”
Lucian cut in. He glanced at me, caught the smirk on my face, and quickly added:
“I mean… Elara’s not the type to hold a grudge. She’s definitely forgiven you. You don’t need to rush into dating anyone.”
“Right, Elara? Yesterday’s done. We move on. Okay?”
Right. My kids had been gone less than forty-eight hours. He went to Disneyland. Watched fireworks. Held another woman’s hand.
And now he was standing in my kitchen, wearing an apron, telling me to “move on.”
I smiled.
“Sure. I don’t care.”
The list was already locked anyway. They’d be on a plane to South Sudan soon enough.
What they were, where they went last night, what they did—I didn’t care.
Really. I didn’t.
Lucian seemed to relax. He pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses—the ones I gave him. He still wore them. Always had.
“Good… I’m glad you’re being reasonable. I cleared my schedule for the week. I’ll stay here with you. Give you time to settle. Once you’re feeling better, and after the kids… after this week, I’ll go back to work.”
I nodded.
At least he knew. He was their father. He should be standing next to that urn.
But Mira’s expression flickered—just for a second. Then she smiled again. Her eyes darted around, and she reached over, taking the plate right out of Lucian’s hands.
“Elara, you have to try Dr. Drake’s scrambled eggs. We had them once at this bed-and-breakfast in Napa, and I told him they were amazing. He said he’d learn to make them for me. I snuck a bite earlier—tastes exactly like that place.”
Lucian shot me a look. His face went stiff.
He never used to cook. “My hands are for saving lives,” he’d always say. “They don’t belong on a spatula.”
But last month, he started locking himself in the kitchen after work. Made a huge mess. Broke a bowl. Burned a pan once. I cleaned up after him more than a few times.
The kids were really sick then. I was running between the hospital and home every day. Dropped almost ten pounds.
I thought he’d finally… I thought he was starting to care. That he finally wanted to do something for this family.
Turns out he was just recreating that plate of eggs.
Mira held the plate out. She was less than a foot away, and my throat was already tightening.
That smell. Truffle oil.
I’m allergic to all fungi. Lucian knew that.
Our second year of marriage, we went to a Michelin-starred restaurant. He watched me get rushed to the ER after eating truffle pasta. Hives all over. Throat closing up. Face swollen so bad the nurses didn’t recognize me.
After that, he banned truffles from the house. His rule.
And now this plate of truffle scrambled eggs was right in front of my face.
Mira smiled, inching the plate closer.
“Go on. Try it.”