I just went upstairs to return some items to their place as is the perennial problem of living in a double storey dwelling - things taken downstairs have to be taken upstairs. I placed the journal on the bedside table and saw my son's pillow, toy cats - o

I just went upstairs to return some items to their place as is the perennial problem of living in a double storey dwelling - things taken downstairs have to be taken upstairs. I placed the journal on the bedside table and saw my son's pillow, toy cats - one grey, one pink, the giraffe comforter, and little blue blankie on the bed, where they were left this morning. He has been at home with me for the past 4-months, him playing and resting by my side as I worked, my morning tea break spent making snacks and playing Lego, my lunch break putting him down for his afternoon nap. Without a 2-hour commute each day there was time for walks, I could stay up later to catch up on work and study, there was no need to rush. We found a rhythm.

He went back to daycare on Monday. He cried, and so did I—when I sat back in the car, though, not in front of him. I go back to work next week. I will be glad to, in a way, because I will have some distraction from the ache of my broken heart.