You Made Your Bed
Maybe Tyler just got carried away playing and stayed out a little longer.
I tried to comfort myself, rubbing my aching head as I made my way to the kitchen.
I finished cooking a full meal, and another hour passed, but the front door stayed completely silent.
Each time I hoped they'd walk in, I was let down all over again.
I sat at the table, watching the food go from hot to cold, then reheated, then cold again.
"Tyler, I made your favorite meatballs. When are you coming home?" I mumbled to myself, picking up a meatball and putting it into my mouth. "Is it not good enough?"
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