When I had to travel out of town for work, I tried to manage my schedule so that could maximize my productivity while minimizing my time away from home. Since I hated flying, I did my best to choose nonstop, direct flights that had me arrive and leave at the most reasonable times. On paper, my itinerary seemed solid. But reality often blew holes through my best laid plans.
Connections were missed. Baggage was lost. Mechanical issues, weather problems and crew shortages caused multiple delays or flight cancellations. As a result, I wouldn’t get home until hours after I had anticipated.
I’d text my wife with my whiny updates from the plane so she didn’t worry. I’d tell her not to wait up for me since I’d be getting home after midnight.
By the time I got in my door, I was miserable.
So my wife started a tradition. If I was going to arrive late (which was usually the case), she’d make a big bowl of tuna salad and leave it in the fridge for me, along with a bag of kettle chips and a note telling me she loved me.
I’d come in the door exhausted but unable to sleep with the sound of plane engines echoing inside my head. It would take me hours to wind down. So I’d unpack my suitcase, strip off my travel clothes and head to the sofa to mindlessly watch something on TV while munching on tuna salad and chips.
It was the best homecoming she could possibly give me.
She did this for a decade. Never once did she complain about it. Nor did she ever ask me if I wanted her to do it. She just did it so I could have a decent meal when I trudged in the door.
That is love.