141 days.

You wake up just shortly before seven. Morning routine, breakfast. No, I forgot--you don't make breakfasts any more, you just have milk shakes. Before you leave, you give our son instructions for the day mainly to make sure that he won't sleep in. Around eight you are at work. I won't call you before nine, because I know that you are normally very busy in the morning. When I finally hear your voice on the phone, you will be telling me about your morning, about our cat who always barges into our bedroom at six or even earlier to see the manager to complain that he's been waiting for his meals for too long, all night, to be exact; about your and Dmitri's evening the day before. I am ready to listen to you for hours, but you need to get back to work. We may briefly get in touch after your lunch, but most likely I won't be able to call you until you come home or even later, when you and Dmitri finish your dinner. It is a blessing that I can talk to you on the phone, but it simply can't replace the joy and happiness of seeing you every day, enjoying our breakfasts or dinners together, when all three of us discuss a book or a film; it can't replace talking to you looking into your beautiful eyes, or just sitting beside you in silence, having your head on my shoulder. So, evenings are the worst part of the day when I, again and again, come back to reality that I can't go home to be with you. 141 days. Driving ten hours a day at 100 km/h for one hundred and forty one days theoretically I could have made three and a half travels around the world covering 140,000 kilometers, but it's still not long enough to conquer these mere five or seven kilometers that separate us. Even if I walked, it would take me just one hour and a half to reach you. 141 days--gone, will never come back.