Once upon a time there was a tired Mom that entered one of her upstairs bedrooms. She missed the girls that had deserted their havens to hang out in college dorms. She thought she’d sit on the bed for just a minute and wallow in her abandoned misery.
The first bed was too soft so she fought her desire to give in.
She went into the hall trying not to be sad about their journey and her own progression in life.
That didn’t help her resist the temptation to peek into her baby girl’s room too.
…and she could rest for a few minutes, couldn’t she?
But the second bed was loft style, too hard and at the top of a ladder. She wasn’t young and in college anymore so she decided to recline under the bed instead.
She sat on the futon and let the melancholy settle into her own tired frame.
The new cushion was just right.
It was there that she fell asleep thinking of her grown babies and dreaming about the next time they’d all be together again.
When she awoke, she heard their Dad on the cell phone downstairs.
I think she’s upstairs in your room I heard him tattle.
“Trisha said you better not be in her room!”
Honestly, I think she’s probably reading or writing in your sister’s room. My good spouse was yet again trying to mediate three women, this time from afar.
“Come down here and talk to her. She says that futon is for when one of their friends visits, not you”, he laughs in a not-so-commanding voice.
I fly into the family room, grab my alibi book and casually walk down the stairs to get on speaker phone.
“I was just finishing my cup of tea before I went for a walk in the woods. You act like I broke something.”
<In response to putting your life into a fairy tale.>