He drove home after a late night at school. A decent day, but still happy to head home. Wife and child in their probably too big, probably too bright home. Quiet “how was your day?” and playing “family” ahead of him. He would be the baby. The girl would be the mom. Fun. Exhausted fun. He would cook dinner. Two would enjoy. The small one not so much. The little one would go to sleep after bargaining and sincere questioning. Not a drop of malice, but still a mini marathon of patience. He would clunk back down the stairs. She would be on the couch. In work clothes. Or sweats. TV on. She would be watching. Or on her phone. Working. Or not. There. Or not. All would be fine. He might advance. She might consent. Or not. The sun barely set, they would brush their teeth. One last glance or ten at the phone. Lights off. Sleep. Or not. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
He opens the garage. Climbs out of his car. Steels himself for nothing in particular. Ready to greet and repeat. But.