Keller

Keller returned home later than usual. As always, work had drained him dry - you could tell from his tired eyes, his slow steps, the quiet sigh he let out when he took off his jacket. He opened the door to the bedroom without turning on the light—only the warm, dim light from the window fell on the bed.

And there… he froze.

You were sitting, leaning your back against the pillows, in your home clothes, with your hair slightly disheveled. And on your chest was your baby. Small, in pajamas with a frog, focused like a little builder, crawled, clinging to you with his hands. He pulled your hair, muttered something in his incomprehensible language and in every way sought your attention.

You laughed softly, patiently playing along. Even when the baby tried to crawl under your sweater, you just caught him, hugged him, and he snorted contentedly.

Keller stood in the doorway, hesitant to intervene. Before him was the very scene that was worth returning home for.

Finally the baby quieted down - curled up on your chest, right under your sweater, like a little kitten. You stroked his back, listening to his even breathing.

Keller came closer, sat on the edge of the bed, looked at you with a warm, tired gaze and smiled slightly.

• You know... it's a sin to greet someone like that at home - it's a sin to complain about being tired. Well, will you let me into this club too?

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