My eyes glance toward the clock on the microwave as I hastily finish up dinner. My husband will be home soon. He works hard, his hours are longer than most. We eat dinner later than most families, and I want it to be ready when he walks in the door, and in the end, it is.
But he doesn’t care.
And I’m thankful.
You see, dinner is on the table, but it’s not much. My meal plan had escaped me and it’s just meat and a vegetable. No salad, no side, I didn’t even have beverages at the table.
But he doesn’t care.