A pair of empty nesters in their breakfast nook, drinking coffee and reading the paper.
“Sunny Horizons. One bedroom, ranch-style homes. It’s perfect,” she said, sliding over the real estate section.
Suddenly, the doorbell.
“This early?” she asked.
“Probably that idiot mailman,” he grumbled, hobbling towards the door.
But on the other side was no mailman.
“Hey Dad,” said their forty-something son with a sheepish grin and a stack of luggage behind him.
The old man grunted, his brow furrowed.
“Who is it?” came the call from the kitchen.
Another long decade in this outsized house was apparently the answer.
The Weekday One Hundred 