Why I Work
Every single day the first thing my eldest son tells me when I come home from work is: “I missed you!”
He says it just like that, with an exclamation point. He says it like he hasn’t seen me in years.
As endearing and loving as this sincere gesture of my son is to me, it’s probably the hardest part of my day.
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Right now I am writing my column for the week, only minutes before its deadline, and I am dreading arriving home to my little house.
I am dreading the loving embrace of my family, and the sweet tenders of their affection.
Of course, my apprehension is not due to some absurd loathing of my precious ones but due to the inevitable question that arises when I realize that I have been away from them for nearly ten hours: “Why am I doing this?”