I have my two sons for one week out of every two. I drop them off to their mum's house on Sunday afternoon. Sometime between dropping them off and going to sleep it hits me. The realisation of how much I love them. How much I miss them. How I have let them down in the week preceding, not given them all that they could have had from me, not being as present as I want to be with them.
Sometimes I start to feel this as soon as I drop them off, if not before. Sometimes it hits me as I am washing their sheets later in the evening. Sometimes it is when I am picking up one of the paintings or drawings they have made while they have been here.
It is like I can feel their little hearts breaking. I see their faces, and I want them to know that I love them so much. That I want to be with them all the time. That I am sorry. It is not their fault.
Perhaps they are okay. Perhaps I see myself in them. A little boy whose heart is breaking. Who feels all alone every second Sunday evening. Lonely, and alone.