By Lee-Ann Khoh
The first rays of sunlight plough through our bedroom window, signaling the end of another sleepless night. The empty space beside me is cold, crying out for your return. Your clothes hang where you left them. I keep your phone charged on the bedside table, hoping somewhere, somehow you’ll ring it like you used to when you’d misplaced it and I’ll hear your voice telling me you’re coming home.
The pitter-patter of bare feet charge into the room before little arms and legs clamber manfully onto the bed, jolting me into the present. Our son presses his face to my cheek. “Mummy. Breakfast,” he commands, then remembering his manners, adds: “Please?” The sweet, artificially fruity scent on his breath tells me he’s already found the candy jar this morning, but I decide to let it slide.
Aiden turns four today.