I never thought I’d end up in an arranged marriage. I didn’t talk to her much before we tied the knot, and I definitely didn’t love her. It was all so formal, like we were two strangers thrown together for some purpose neither of us understood. But then, less than a year into the marriage, she got pregnant.

When she told me, I didn’t know what to feel. But she decided to move to Europe. Said it was better for the baby. I couldn’t argue with that, so I stayed in America to handle my business. She was right; it wasn’t the kind of marriage that needed constant attention.

I came over during the holidays, and on Alex’s birthday, of course. But it was always just for appearances—nothing too personal. I didn’t even know how to be a proper father or husband in that situation.

Now, Alex is 7. I’m back for the holidays, and we’re having dinner together. The atmosphere’s oddly familiar, but there’s still that wall between us. Alex finishes his plate and runs off to play with his toys in the corner, not even giving it a second thought. She and I? We barely exchange words, like we’re both stuck in this routine but don’t know how to make it anything more.

It’s always like this when I come back. The visits are short, and nothing ever changes. I wonder if this is it—if we’ll ever really be a family, or if we’ll just keep going through the motions, tied together by a child but little else.