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.
What are these actually worth, especially when what they amount to is hurt and pain and misery…or inconvenience or humiliation or shame?
No one says, “Well, at least I had good intentions” when everything turns out OK and no one is upset or offended or otherwise injured. When the shit doesn’t hit the fan.
You can’t take credit and admit guilt. Absolve and take responsibility.
But you can try, and probably get away with most of what you’re after. Eat that cake, and have it too. Big bites, anyway. Juicy ones.
If that’s what you intend.
If that’s the best you’ve got.
If you know what I mean.