That’s the story from the day I got really scared and called to my mom.

I wake up every day with Barbara (my wife). It’s our routine:
– she gets up, I turn on the TV in the news;
– she gets dressed up, I stay in bed and watch the news;
– she kisses me and say “bye, see you later”, and I say “have a good day, let me know when you get to the your company”;
– she closes the bedroom door;
I go back to sleep.

Our routine. Every couple has its own. Normal.

But I will confess that, every day she leaves, I imagine that someone will break into my house and I will have to hide in the room with the cat.

I don’t know, it’s like I’m totally vulnerable at home alone without Barbara.

Well, but on that day last week, Barbara broke the protocol: she kissed me and say “goodbye, see you later”, closed the bedroom door, BUT she didn’t leave. He stayed home in complete silence, like a spy or something.

Suddenly – in the transition between thoughts that my house will be invaded and the most enjoyable sleep I have (between 6am and 8am) – I hear some of those horror movie steps: slow, but heavy.

I wake up desperate, with a thousand hearts, at the height of my anxiety.

What do I do? I call my mother.

“MOTHER? MOTHER!? MOTHER!?” (Three times, to make it clear how much I needed her).

Barbara, seeing my despair, keeps walking like the psychosis killer.

She opens the bedroom door, almost choking from laughing so much.

I don’t know why I did that. I just did. It was by instinct.

I called my mother in a moment of terror.

(As she’s already told everyone at the company, I’m going to make my anguish public)


Originally published on my Facebook page

Meu nome é Müller, se fala Miller, mas me chamam de Mulher.
Sou criador de conteúdo, publicitário, designer e empreendedor.
Nas horas vagas gosto de ler, ouvir música, viajar, ver filmes, assistir séries e falar sobre essas coisas.
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