It wouldn’t be the last time she would wait for him to come home.
She sat by the fireplace, her needlework in hand and considered how she had become so predictable. He would be off, who knew where, and she would be here, waiting. While she could explain to others the reason behind it, while she understood why, sometimes she no longer felt so sure. There were good reasons, but were they the only reasons? He always returned so tired and it was like he wasn’t even there. Or she wasn’t even there.
The blanket was almost done. She held it up and the bottom brushed against her knees. Folding it down again, she continued, focusing solely on her work and nothing else. Or that was how it seemed, but the instant she heard the door she realized all of her focus extended outward, to hear anyone other than herself.
“You didn’t wait up for me, did you?”
“I just had some trouble sleeping.”
Yet at moments like these, she had his full attention. Despite the work, despite the fatigue, despite the dangers at every corner. This was all she could do, wait for him.
As he reached for her face and kissed her, she wondered if that was enough.