It’s good to be home.

On Friday night, as we swept past the flat en route to the parental house, it hurt. Even though I got conversation, tea and breakfast that I didn’t have to make, not until last night, when I was curled up on the floor next to The Roomate and Her Boy giggling about something inane and slurping up the Spanish liqueur I swiped from the parents, did I sigh and think, I’m home.

I woke up this morning in a fuzzy purr, and even though there was no milk, The Roommate went to the store and bought it and Her Boy boiled it so MinCat could have her tea.

And now, as we sit on the living room floor caterwauling along with Adam Levine, all the angst, doubt and trouble of the past week melts away: This is why my life is the way it is, and This makes it worthwhile.

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