processing

8 | Debrief – Part 1

I sobbed on the way home, squinting at road signs through the roll-up sunglasses wedged between my glasses and my face. The plastic clung to the edges of my forehead; my dilated pupils ached in the afternoon sunshine. By the time I pulled the car into the driveway, my husband had already emailed his boss and claimed a personal day. I opened the door and my husband stood in the center of the dining room, my kids on the floor playing beneath him – they turned to look at me.

“Mommy!” said my two-and-a-half-year-old son, while my four-year-old daughter hid beneath the table, giggling.

“Hey, bud,” I said to him.

“Hi,” my husband said to me.

I closed the door and walked toward my husband. I rested my head on his chest, and he embraced me. “Are you okay?” he said.

I stood up straight and said, “It looked like an explosion in my eye.”

8 | Debrief  – Part 1