my singer

Tolga thinks he knows, but he doesn't.  He can only imagine the days without him, and hear the tidbits.  But he doesn't know.  He calls from his hotel, sentimental and missing his wife and kids.  In the mean time I am juggling ten tasks, and juggling Tolga on the phone is the eleventh task - so with effort I acknowledge how he's feeling, try to get the kids to say hello and stop singing, fighting, hitting, running, throwing, crying, etc.

We talk on the phone on my way to work, and on my home.  It is the best time to check in with each other.  My phone calls go over the car's bluetooth speaker and we talk while Teoman sings.  He sang in the morning the whole way to school, and on the way home - the whole way.  It was his made-up song, tuneless and endless.    Our typical commute