"Can we order pizza?" Jake asks, climbing onto one of the double beds. "Aunt Sophia always lets us order pizza on Sundays."
"It's Monday, baby."
"Oh." He deflates a little. "Can we still get pizza?"
"Sure. We can get whatever you want."
I order from the hotel phone because my cell is still blowing up with calls and texts I don't want to see. While we wait for the food, I help Jake set up his dinosaurs on the nightstand, trying to make this sterile room feel more like home.
It doesn't work.
Nothing about this feels like home.
A home carries a warmth no hotel room can imitate. Placing personal belongings around the room can’t recreate that warmth.
The pizza arrives—greasy and lukewarm—and we eat it cross-legged on the bed while Jake tells me about all the things he saw on the cruise.
