Baksheesh was crying again, like he had been every night of the last five months. But his time, they were tears of joy, as he hugged his wife, his hands around her body, his face in her hair, his tears on her cheeks. Aziza was crying too, her tears being soaked up by Baksheesh's torn, filthy clothes.
Baksheesh moved him hand between them, resting it on his wife's now very swollen, round belly. She cried even more, and he held on to her even tighter.
"I'm sorry," Aziza sobbed into her husband's chest.
"I know," he whispered.
* * *
Baksheesh was sitting at the table, bathed and in his old clothes, his regal attire. He was holding a cinnamon bun, and fed it to his wife. She took a bite, smiled, and said those magical words.
"I love you."
Baksheesh leaned over and they kissed passionately, among the smell of the sweet cinnamon.