#071 A House is Not a Home
Every morning I stand in the kitchen and prepare breakfast for my husband before he leaves for work. Two strips of bacon. Two sunny side up eggs. White toast. Lightly buttered. And black coffee.
By the time the toaster dings I hear him pull the chair out at the kitchen table and sit with the morning paper unfolded, reading aloud to himself. I place his plate down carefully in front of him and hold my breath. Waiting.
He glances at the plate and smiles. I breathe and sit across from him. The chain around my ankle rattles in the silence.
I’m not meant to live alone, turn this house into a home
When I climb the stairs and turn the key
Oh, please be there, sayin’ that you’re still in love with me
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