An emotional morning at home. An exhausting day at work. And Mister knows me well enough to know when I need to be taken care of.
During my drive home from work he calls my cell. "How are you?" he asks.
"I just want to go to sleep. For a week." I wearily reply.
"I'm making you breakfast for dinner" he says. And my eyes tear up just a little. This man loves me.
When I was a little girl, it was a special treat when my dad made dinner. Special because his specialty was breakfast for dinner. Pancakes, sausages, eggs, orange juice. It was all warm and rosy with Dad in the kitchen and the decadent smells of a big breakfast cooking as the sun went down.
Mister has never quite appreciated my affinity for breakfast dinner. He has never liked it when I try to pass off bacon and pancakes as "dinner." He has no emotional attachment to that menu. And during our almost 23 years he seemed not to understand that I do have an emotional attachment that goes far beyond just the food.
So the gesture of him making this special comfort food for me after a particularly cactusy day was tender and loving and thoughtful.
"And there's something I want you to do, okay?" he sneaks in at the end of the conversation.
I'm too tired. I'm worn completely through and can't imagine lifting a finger to do anything else just now. But for him I comply. "Yes?" I ask.
"I want you to ask for four days off in a row at the end of the month. I'm taking you to Las Vegas for our anniversary."
This man loves me.