I’m not going to lie. I’m happy most professional sports have ended — at least the ones my husband watches.
A few weeks ago, the NBA finals brought back a particularly bad memory that turned our entire household upside down. Let me take you back to the 2014 NBA championships.
Gerald was shouting at the TV as he had been every night since the playoffs began.
That night I was rushing out for a meeting with an artists’ group. “Bye, y’all!” I yelled, running out the front door. I knew the girls were in good hands because Dad Can Handle It!
I was back home by 8:30, the perfect time to give both of my girls kisses before bed. But as soon as I came in, I knew something was wrong.