The absence was always the hardest part. The empty space in your bed, the quiet moments where his presence should have been—a reminder that his duty as a general took him far from home, far from you.

He had been gone for months now, and though you understood his responsibilities, the ache never lessened. Your children would ask when he’d return, their little faces hopeful, and all you could do was offer them the same reassurance you whispered to yourself at night: Soon.

But Jiyan never left you entirely alone. His letters arrived regularly, written in his precise, disciplined handwriting. The first half would always be formal—updates on the warfront, his strategies, the movements of his army. You knew it was for your peace of mind, proof that he was still alive and well. But it was always the end of his letters that made your heart tighten.

"I hope our son hasn’t been too stubborn, though I have no doubt he inherited both our resilience. Remind our daughter that she is always my little star. And you, my love… I find myself counting the days until I can hold you again. Until then, know that my thoughts remain with you, no matter how far I am."

And when he returned, it was never empty-handed. Gifts, trinkets, things he thought you and the children would love—but none of it mattered as much as the moment his strong arms wrapped around you, as he whispered against your hair, "I’ve missed you."

Because no matter how far he went, Jiyan always found his way back to you.