KK works late three nights in a row.
Three nights, we don’t hear the loud click of the door lock turning at 7pm and the kids don’t have the sturdy pair of arms to run into, squealing “papa”!
Each time KK has to stay back, he tells me almost apologetically and I respond: “OK”.
Home alone with the kids doesn’t faze me anymore.
But one of us cracks.
The second of KK’s late nights, I tuck Day in bed. As I pass by his room door on yet another thankless errand the girls send me on, I hear quiet sobbing.
The boy is lying face down on the bed, legs clamped tightly together, arms crossed under his face.
I go over to him: What are you thinking about, Day?
He looks up, mucus running, eyes red and streaming with tears. “Papa… I miss papa,” he squeaks.
KK tucks Day into bed every night. The talk man-to-man in the dark. They play games on the iPhone. They sleep next to each other until Day goes down, which usually takes all of five minutes.
That’s why he misses his papa.
KK, on his return home, kisses the kids and turns to me: “I hate working late. I miss my kids.”