Reincarnation as an Expat Wife

“I would love to be reincarnated as an expat wife”, my husband, Hans, claims, half jokingly – I hope – leaning comfortably into his large wicker chair on the terrace of our house in Cairo. Our jasmine filled garden stretches down to the banks of the ancient River Nile. Enjoying the coolness of the evening breeze we watch the sun, a red sinking ball of fire, reflecting on the ripples creating a spectacle of thousands of crimson sparkles.
The tall starched sail of a felucca boat lit up by a lonely oil lamp slowly meanders its way elegantly back and forth across the twinkling water of the illustrious river whilst I contemplate Hans’ remark. I conclude that I am flabbergasted by his comment. I was under the illusion that out of the two of us, quite frankly, he has the better deal. After all, because of his work he has had structure in his life from the first Monday morning that he set off to the office in a chauffeured, air-conditioned car leaving me behind in the hotel to sort out the rest of our life in Egypt. I am intrigued that he wants to be me! I suddenly remember my mother saying with great relish: “Just you wait till you have children.”
And now that I am a mum, I get it!
“You should be far more careful with what you wish for”, I tell Hans and take a satisfied sip of my Obalisk wine. I relish the thought.