I hate leaving them.

I love being at home, with the warm fire and the comfortable old lounge.

I love the noise.

I love the big wet kisses from the smallest boy and the easy flow of words from the other kids.

Waking up to smiling faces and stories about trucks and aeroplanes and hearing all about their dreams.

I miss them when I’m here

but

I hate being away from her too.

I feel like a part of me is missing when I’m not with her.

I hate feeling torn.