The coffeemaker finishes its bump and grind and I fill my favourite mug, the one Daniel gave me when the kids were small, reminding me that, “Grandchildren are Your Reward for Not Killing your Children”. I smile at the memory. It was sheer madness having three kids under the age of two, but I wouldn’t trade a single stretch mark.
Taking my coffee into the living room, I can just make out a low humming sound punctuating the stillness. As I approach, Darth Vader informs me that, “This is CNN”. The boys must have come in after I went to bed and left the TV on; there’s no way either of them would be up this early.
I round the sofa and am about to sit down when someone yelps.
In the blue flicker of darkness, I can just make out a form. A rather round, small form. With deep-set eyes and a distinctive hunch, a pair of stockinged feet propped up on the coffee table.
Recoiling in fright, groping for the lamp on the end table, which promptly belly flops onto the floor, my eyes adjust to the dimness if not the scene in front of me. My brain struggles to assimilate the information ziplining across my skull.
For there, on my sofa, wearing an irascible scowl, is Napoleon Bonaparte.
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