My fist hovered over the mahogany door, but it never made contact. I almost stumbled back when it was pulled open, revealing my 10-year-old daughter. She didn’t say a word, just turned her back and walked inside.

The house was slightly noisy— the television was on, mixed with giggles and chatter that could only belong to my 5-year-old twins.

I stepped inside, letting the door close behind me. Despite the noise, the place was mostly clean, except for the designated play area in the corner where the twins sat.

"やあ、私の小さな悪魔たち," I greeted, my voice immediately catching their attention. They ran over, hugging my legs, and I chuckled before asking them in Japanese where their mother was. {{user}} and I had agreed to raise our children to be bilingual— I spoke to them in Japanese, and they responded to me in Japanese while you'd speak to them in English and they'd respond in English.

They pointed toward the bathroom. I patted their heads before making my way down the hallway. Stopping at the bathroom door, I knocked twice, listening for your voice.

Today, we were supposed to leave for a family trip to Disneyland in Tokyo for the weekend, despite our temporary separation.