During his recent overseas business trip, he had said to me, "Helen, I'm too busy these days. I might not be able to reply to your messages promptly." True to his word, he didn't reply to even one.
But on those same dates, he was receiving this woman's daily 'work reports' and having hour-long video calls with her.
The sound of running water from the bathroom stopped. I put down his phone and used the blanket to wipe away the dampness from the corners of my eyes.
A warm body, carrying the scent of cedarwood, approached. His deep, gentle voice sounded by my ear, "Helen, you're still awake? Were you waiting for me to tell you a bedtime story?"
I was an orphan. When we met in our youth, I once envied other children who had parents to tell them bedtime stories. I didn't have that.
At that time, he held me gently with a heartbroken expression and promised, "From now on, I'll tell you a story every day."
He kept his promise. As long as he wasn't on a business trip, I would fall asleep each night to his stories. Listening to his tender voice now, a subtle ache spread through my heart.