Make yourself at home. Cliché, right? Except for a six-year-old, the one looking for exactly that. A first-grader doesn’t know pleasantry, only that words spoken are promises meant. “Thank you,” I said, and I imagine her looking down into who I was, who I remain: the wide-eyed, the slightly disbelieving. To this day I cannot imagine someone is actually in love with me; tell that to my husband of 12 years. I cannot believe I too could be wanted, desired, needed.
Or in this case, welcomed.
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