He promised me he would come back, that everything would be picked up from where it was left.
Two years later, he wasn’t home yet.
Though he wrote a letter. He wrote that he was getting confused and lonely. I told him to come back, but he couldn’t. I didn’t know why, so I asked him. He didn’t reply.
A year passed, I got a mail.
It was from him. He said he was sorry. He said he couldn’t just leave his son alone as the mother abandoned them. But he said that he still loved me. I ripped the paper. I burned the pieces.
Days after, he sent me letters.
He told me to answer him. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
Three years later, there was a knock on my door.
I weakly opened it and standing there was a spitting image of him. Though the boy was younger. He was holding the hand of the nurse beside him. The nurse gave me a sympathetic look. I didn’t know why.
But five days later, I found the answer as I stood and mourned before his grave while holding the hand of the piece of himself.