staceybooks

Ten minutes until we land. Ten minutes until I get to wrap my arms around my sweet husband, who’s probably circling the airport right now wondering why every pickup lane feels like a demolition zone with cones, chaos, and three people directing traffic who clearly gave up trying.

I can’t wait to see him. I’ve been gone too long, and even though it’s only been 9 days, it feels like I’ve aged five years and lived through three lifetimes of hotel drama and networking small talk. There’s nothing like that first hug. The one that says “I missed you” and “Please pretend I don’t smell like recycled plane air and emotional exhaustion.”

Then comes the hour-plus drive home. That’s when I’ll let it all out. The stories about how the hotel fan sounded like a freight train but somehow didn’t cool the room. The person at the conference who said, “Let’s connect” but definitely meant “I’m going to ghost you the second we leave this room.” And how I paid $11 for a slice of airport pizza that was so dry I almost asked for lotion instead of napkins.

And then we’ll get home.

To the house that I keep at meat freezer level.

Let’s not confuse things. I’m the reason the thermostat is set to sub-Arctic. I sleep better that way. I think more clearly. I’ve convinced myself it builds character. My husband will walk through the door, immediately start shivering, and say something passive-aggressive like “Did we forget to pay the heating bill?” while I curl up in my hoodie, completely unfazed.

But that’s home. That’s us.

The weird comfort of our routines. The familiar scent of our house. The thermostat battle I always win. And his arms that feel like home, even when he’s grumbling about his nose going numb.

Ten minutes. Just ten more.

And then I get everything I’ve been missing—love, warmth, and a personal igloo I can call my own.