I had no idea of the sweetness of a conventional bedtime, of you lying awake but drowsy and all tucked in beneath the blankets, your head cushioned in the sweet divot of a soft pillow, apparently all cool with my announcement that I'm going downstairs; of watching your heavy-lidded eyes watch my face as I close in for a kiss on your soft soft face; of whispering the words, "Night Night," and knowing that I am leaving the room.

I have no guilt.

You ask for milk as I straighten up, and because it's been a while since you used that as a stalling tactic and you did have some salty things for dinner, I get it for you without argument. I watch you drink, repeat the soft kiss and Night Night whispers, and walk down the stairs in perhaps the most blissful silence ever, apart from the creaking wood.