My mother died when I was three. When I was six, I went to live with my maternal grandmother. My father left me there and said he’d be back for me. Eight years later, he was.
In the meantime he would call. Occasionally he even came to visit. Sometimes he would call and say he was coming to visit, but not show up. On those days I would wait for him, knees on the couch, staring out the window, from morning to night. He wouldn’t come. He wouldn’t call, and I’d cry myself to sleep.
Somethings we never get over. I have just been forceably reminded that I am not good at waiting.