How a Sunday should be.

It was great to finally have everybody back at home, around the dinner table. The past two weeks, a discomforting gloom and loneliness loomed over the infamously 'happening' unit. Neil had been out with his friends a lot while Kelvin eloped with his broken heart, leaving Ivan alone at home, keeping Boredom company.

He came home, finally. I reckon we all breathed the same sigh of relief. Me, perhaps with maternal instincts, feeling stronger than the rest. The other person that I thought I lost was acting normal again too. I was hoping, not too hard,that everything was normal. And so we bustled around the kitchen, me over the pot of chicken curry, Ivan slicing his salted fish. Finally, we were at the table, each with our own distinctive plates, talking,laughing, eating, like normal. Me, with my maternal instincts again, pleased as they went for seconds and thirds. And I, succumbing to my intrinsic, domestic, unfeminist role of a mother, spooned more curry into the fast emptying bowl. We ate, asked how his weekend was, tried to look beyond the tired, tear strained eyes.

After dinner and oranges, we parted to our own work, after helping me with my pc. Each again, to his own confined space, own leisure, own work, own determination.

I had seen the pictures on Facebook and knew what was going on. Or at least, i anticipated what was about to happen. The explanation (slash confirmation) did come after all. What did you expect me to say? How did you want me to respond? I said everything truthfully. I meant it. If you're happy, I'm happy. Glad to know she's a good girl who can bring positive influence to you. Phil Collins started crooning 'You have no right...to ask me how i feel...'

I forgotten how long it took me to sleep. I lay awake, eyes up to the ceiling, picturing you and her sisters, ice cream... I listen as Neil took two deep, long breaths in his sleep. I felt suffocated with my short gasp. The familar smell of sleep and masculine perfume brought me home.

But this is not my bed and this is not my home. The illusion of belonging to a home is so condescending. As much as you want to belong somewhere, you will never quite belong anywhere outside yourself.