It was a year ago that San left with scarcely a word. One moment we are in bed, I am pregnant, and we tell each other that we love each other. The next he is gone.
And then as is known he returned. He claimed our son, whom I had borne along, with whom I rose in the night with no father, looking at the questions written in his skin, had simply appeared to him in his cavern. That our children missed me, but what could he do? And yet I still believed. And I forgave him.
And again, the same.
I loved him. Perhaps I still do. But I was but a plaything to him in the end. He is the only man who has ever made me feel a whore. Now, I have read, he writes a romance about me. If it is published I will read it, and laugh. His love was not true.