Home again after cutting our holiday time with family short. By more than half, actually. A good ratio, a nice, sane, solid number. A more than reasonable amount of time, so measured.
There was a part of me that feels guilt – tinges of it – for leaving so soon, so abruptly. But then there’s your family and there are your relatives, your sense of self and the imposition of others.
You get to choose. You do.
It’s all relative, really.
What’s that line anyway? The one between fiction and reality?
I can’t imagine it being so thick, or very strong, if pressed.