Coming Home

Not only was it Monday.

But a Monday after a holiday.

During a winter storm.

And I don’t have proper winter shoes.

I’m in a new position at work, one I’ve held for three months, in an area where I have no experience. I’m trying to learn everything I can, but sometimes, or most of the time, I’m at a rodeo holding onto the bull and sometimes I’m getting my teeth knocked out.

I came home today with a pile of file folders in case the weather gets worse.

My teen daughter had painted more of the living room, did a bunch of chores of the variety I know she doesn’t like, and then, knowing my spirits were crushed, she made me dinner.

And asked her father to bring me a bottle of whiskey.

We had Pillsbury cinnamon buns and Jim Beam Honey for dessert.

I felt like it was 1952 and I was coming home from my fancy career. My daughter was my cute little 1950s housewife pouring me a drink.

Of course if I were keeping up with the analogy, we’d need two kids, a picket fence and a dog.

If you know my daughter, you know the thing she wants most in the world is a dog.

She’s so close and yet so far.

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