And when I get back that afternoon—all pampered, and rested, and sane—I walk into a spotless house. A happy little girl plays with wooden blocks on the carpet. Theo builds them up, and she knocks them down, laughing hysterically while he acts offended that she could do that to him. On the stove, a delicious aroma wafts from a large pot. Theo calls it “Brazilian Stroganoff” and says it’s something his dad used to make for his mom. And when I go to bed that night, the hinges on my door don’t squeak at all.
A true man
