I visited a friend, single, in her thirties. She had a sweet two-bedroom flat which she had decorated to her own tastes (was in the midst of repainting), had many friends and an active social life, was writing a book, teaching and studying. She had widely travelled, and varied interests. Her life was her own. I sat in her cosy flat with a cuppa and chatter, quietly envious.
Then I drove home, and waiting for me at the gate were two boys, who were bright-eyed and tail-wagging happy to see me. They opened the gate, crawled in the car to chatter and give hugs and join me in the trip up the short driveway. One sat on my knee and 'drove' the car to its parking space. Inside, the house warm and glowing, hubby quietly sitting on the couch, (sorting fossils, his passion) and the light in his eyes was the same. It mattered that I was a part of their life, very much.
And Shakespeare's "For thy sweet love remembered, such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings."
