Throughout four and a half years of my short career stint, I have travelled across d whole country, on average, once a month. Yet, since I began taking up a new job two years ago, I have failed to return home for a long, long time.
Define long. A month? A year? A decade? To be precise, just half a year actually. Exactly, five months and two weeks. Altogether twenty two weeks.
Is it long? It depends. When compared against a century, it seems like a split second. 0.05% of 100 years. When compared against a month, it seems tremendously long. 5.2 times longer.
As a workaholic, I think, "Who cares? Does it matter? Work comes first."
But when I step into the shoes of a daughter, regret sets in. It is unbefitting of a daughter to not set foot into her parents' home for more than three months! Do I not want to go home, and visit my parents and friends? Do I not want to spread laughter and smiles into the lives of my family members?
Yet... as often as I want to, I often put work first, family later.
Hence, on the eve of my 28th anniversary, I decided to forsake my favourite work for two days and hitch a ride back home.
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