Last night I came home to an empty house. No spazz-monkey waiting for me when I walked in the door. Quiet. Just quiet.
Last night as I was shutting down the house, I moved around the kitchen on autopilot, filling Fenway’s bowls with water and food for the morning. And then it hit me that I wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t have to. No one was going to be impatient for their breakfast.
One of these days the loss won’t hit me like a soccer punch to the gut. But not today.