Nothing to Myself.
I arrive home.
At some point during the evening, I wipe my brow in a my-word-it's-hard-work-getting-these-children-to-bed-I-don't-know-what-you-do-all-day manner.
Tired Mam: Aw. Are you tired?
Me: A bit.
TM: Aw. Poor Dad.
She never refers to me as this.
TM: Poor Tired Dad.
I, with immense heroism, decide to front it.
TM: You. You must be Tired, Dad
I shrug. Not in real life. You know, inwardly. We're not married, but it is a marriage. There are no secrets and never should be. But it was nice having something to myself for a second.