17
“Sorry to leave you with this messy kitchen to clean up,” Sara says to us, smiling. “I’ll clean up after dinner.”
“No worries, hon,” we say. “You have to run. I understand.”
“You’re the best.” She gives us a peck on the cheek and noisily descends the stairs to the first floor.
We feel one of those quiet moments of joy and contemplation, moments when we marvel at how lucky we are when it comes to familial bliss.
We hear the door bang shut but don’t hear Sara lock it. The little happy moment almost fades. She forgot to lock the door—again. Our wife, the absentminded professor. Stoically, we climb down and lock the door.
With that done, it takes us a few minutes to clean up the kitchen. Then we take out the files from the nearby cardboard box and spread them out on the kitchen table.
