I walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
Nothing looked good.
Ten minutes later, I opened it again.
Still nothing.
Apparently, I expected the refrigerator to hire a chef, restock itself, and prepare a five-course meal while I was scrolling on my phone.
My wife caught me staring into the fridge for the fourth time that hour.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But when I find it, I’ll know.”
An hour later, I had checked the fridge seven times.
The milk was still milk.
The leftovers were still leftovers.
The cheese had not evolved into pizza.
Yet somehow, I remained optimistic.
By the evening, I opened the fridge again and just stood there.
The cold air hit my face.
The light came on.
For a brief moment, everything felt right.
Then I closed it and walked away.
Five minutes later, I returned.
Because home isn’t where the heart is.
Home is where you repeatedly check the fridge like it’s a slot machine that’s eventually going to pay out. 😄
