“Ibu Hot!” her husband, Dika, yelled from the living room, not as a compliment but as a panicked warning. Ibu is hot. Mother is on fire.
The smoke alarm was screaming, the baby was crying, and Aruna was pretty sure she had just set the kitchen on fire.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He didn’t joke. He looked at her—really looked. At the flour in her hair, the chipped nail polish, the fierce exhaustion in her eyes.
“One coat,” he said. “For me.”
“Putting out the wrong fire,” he said. He led her to the bathroom, where he’d already run a cool bath—a miracle. He pointed to the baby monitor. “I’ve got the night watch. You have one hour. No curry, no crying, no being ‘Ibu.’”
He reached over and took the glass from her hand, setting it down. Then he pulled her to her feet, turned her around, and untied her frayed kitchen apron.
Dika appeared in the doorway, one-year-old Maya on his hip. “You okay?”