Long ago I read a Russian short story. The protagonist, whose wife has recently passed away, discovers a small note book which she had kept as a record of her personal feelings and observation. He reads through the diary entries and that sets him thinking. He realizes how little he knew about his wife. He never opened up to her and she never opened up to him. For him his work was most important. It occupied his mind and he had no time for jokes, anecdotes and other trivial things. In fact he maintained the strictest reserve.
They conversed almost exclusively about his work, domestic matters and politics. She tried to talk to him about books, but he never ventured beyond his approval or disapproval.
He realizes, he had not even told her how much he loved her. All their life had been spent in living. Is this not the situation today in many families?