“So, what do you want for Mother’s Day?” my husband asked a few years after our youngest son was born.
I hesitated, not wanting to appear too greedy. “Oh, I don’t really need anything,” I murmured.
“Come on,” he urged, taking me in his arms. “Tell me what you really want.”
“Um, okay. Can I have a weekend alone?”
He rolled his eyes. “Again?”
Yes. Again. Dan had given me a weekend alone the previous Christmas. Not in a fancy spa, but in a cheap hotel half an hour from home. It was the kind of hotel room where people lie on floral bedspreads still wearing their shoes, and pull the room-darkening drapes to either sleep off a bender or have an affair. I did neither. Instead, I holed up to write 10 hours a day on a novel. Pure bliss.