Christian was a little later than usual getting home from work yesterday — never mind that later than usual is the new usual, and I’m starting to have suspicions that he’s trying to minimize his time here. Which is upsetting, considering how much love, affection, and general kumbayah-ness goes on during the hours of 5 and 7 pm in this house. It’s an all out love fest disguised by copious yelling, screaming, and pouting. The kids take part too.
So sometime during the dinner time festivities, I saw a text from my beloved with my two favorite words: “Almost home.” Hooray! I would soon be relieved from my duties and free to do important things like check my Instagram feed.
So I waited. And I slung applesauce at the children. And waited. Tossed some goldfish their way. And waited.
I love the guy. But he does this sometimes. He’ll text “On the road!” which generally means he just left. “On my way!” means he’s packing up his things. So “Almost home” means that he’s right around the corner…from someone’s house, I’m sure.
I picked up my phone and started to peck out a curt “Almost home? Almost HOME?” Where the hell are you mother——, I’m dying over here!” [Insert angry emoji here]
And then I stopped.
What if something was really wrong?
What if there was an accident? What if he was hurt? What if he was lying in a ditch on the side of the road, unable to reach his device and tell me one more time just how much he loved and adored me? [I know. Here’s a tissue.]
Would I really want that to be the last message I ever send him?
Because when the first officers appear on the accident scene, search the surrounding areas of broken glass and strewn bumbers, and locate his device to scroll through his contacts for the all important ICE listing, the last thing I need is for them to read his message and go, “Whoa. This dude’s wife is a total bitch.”