By M. Irene Hill
Jake wraps his arms around my waist and kisses the top of my head. Nuzzles my neck and inhales my scent.
“The best part of my day is coming home to you.”
Guilt wraps its hands around my shriveled heart when he says that. Gives a tight squeeze.
I indulge guilt’s painful grip a moment. Then acknowledge the thought that pesters like a neglected child: The absolute best part of my day is when he leaves for work in the morning.
Not ready to say those words yet, I kiss him.