He hugs me a little gruffly, with the awkwardness of somebody who no longer remembers how to do it.
'Come here, darling. Let's have a hug. I never see you anymore. These days you seem to live your own life.'

I stiffen a little, then pat his back affectionately. He is the father of my children.

'We never watched 'Sleepless in Seattle', did we?', he reminds me.

My ironing marathon never ends. I don't mind watching a movie whilst my family's clothes disappear into the steam and come out looking preppy.

So it's settled for Seattle.

I do the ironing. I watch the movie.

He reads the newspaper.

Why do I feel guilty?