When I talked to Bill at 8 pm, he was annoyingly vague about his travel plans for his return tomorrow.
“You mean you don’t even have a set time you’re meeting for breakfast?” I asked.
“We’ll probably meet about 630 and then head out,” he replied. Please, dear, try to contain your enthusiasm for coming home.
I had to get off the phone for prayers and to get the kids off to bed. “I’m not going to call you later,” I informed him, “I want to try to get some work done.”
An hour later, I finally had the baby asleep. I ignored the sink of dirty dishes and sat down to check email. A minute later, I saw the taillights of a car pulling past my window deeper into the driveway. Who is that? I wondered in alarm. Quickly my brain raced through a mental list as I sprung into action: Where is the dog? Are all the doors locked? Where is the phone? Do I call Bill (to confirm that it’s NOT him) or the police first? Where is the gun? We don’t have any ammo – is there any point?
After checking that the doors were indeed locked and with phone in hand, I went to the door and turned on the outside lights and waited to see who would appear on the steps. I told myself it had to be Bill, because he pulled to the left in the drive where he normally parks, instead of to the right where most people would naturally pull. But Bill was in another state, or so he seemed to claim not an hour before.
Of course, it was Bill. He wanted to surprise me. And when, 10 minutes later, I still had an unpleasant adrenaline rush, he said, “Oh, that’s right, you don’t like surprises.”
I’ll be happy, darling, just as soon as I calm down.