“We’re home! We live here now!” my 5-year-old said as Dave and a friend hauled our couch into our new living room. Later, Dave read library books to wet-haired girls under blankets on that couch while I sat on the love seat, day-dreaming about the Oreos I was about to eat as soon as they were in bed. Later still, a lamp post outside made black-and-orange striped shadows on the bare walls as I ascended the red-shag-carpeted steps to our attic bedroom.
After midnight, the rain pit-patted above me. “Thank God: I’m home,” I thought.
Home. What’s different about this one, and why does any of this matter? Am I making more of this than necessary? How many Oreos are we talking?