(This is another in the Why You Should Never Live With… series. Unreliable Narrator here. Chick-Lit Heroine here. Cop From A Crime Novel here. Young Adult Protagonist here. Literary Fiction Hero here. Romantic Hero here. Historical Fiction Hero here.)
It’s morning. You turn over in bed, sunshine streaming through your tasteful curtains and hitting the antique crocheted bedspread which was made by your grandmother, who was a bit of a wild child in her day, before you knew her as the loving old lady who taught you that hope was eternal, despite the fact that she had buried two husbands and single-handedly brought the family jam-making empire through some war or other.
The bedroom door opens. Women’s Fiction Husband enters the room, carrying a breakfast tray.
Women’s Fiction Husband: Morning, love. How are you?
You: [yawning] Yeah, grand, thanks.
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