My mother just had hip surgery, and since I’m the unemployed daughter at the moment, I offered to help with her recovery. So here I am, a couple of hundred miles away, missing my husband.
I don’t think absence makes the heart grow fonder exactly; it makes it more appreciative.
I miss holding hands while we pray over meals and before we go to sleep at night. I miss the day to day encouragement and patience and gratitude for every tiny thing I do, and the willingness to let go of the things I don’t do but should … like laundry.
I love my parents, and I’m glad to help, but I already feel ready to go home. To my home.