Years ago, a little boy who looked no older than ten was sitting in a park.
He quietly watched people come and go, enviously saw kids holding their parents' hands, smiling happily.
They all had colorful-looking ice cream cones in their hands, happily licking them while chatting with their parents.
This young boy felt a wave of loneliness wash over him.
He was waiting for her, the only woman in his life who was very special to him.
His mother.
Even if she never told him bedtime stories like other kids' mothers do, or sang a goodnight song to him.
Even though she was never there when he needed her.
Even though he'd never felt her pat his head lovingly or kiss his pain away.
Even though she would look at him as if she weren't related to him in any way.
He still wouldn't stop waiting.
He wouldn't stop hoping that someday she would smile at him with warm affection.
Call his name lovingly instead of addressing him as that kid.
He would never stop waiting.
