She sits snuggled on the couch, feet up, legs stretched out, her back curved and resting against the  armrest and a small cushion. The blanket her daughter gave her for Christmas lies in soft, warm,  red-and-white Christmas cheer over her legs and feet. Outside, a grey, cloudy sky testifies to the continuing winter cold, but the heating is on and ticks comfortingly as it switches on and off.

The TV is blaring one of the endless reruns that he prefers to watch (which usually drives her crazy), his gentle snores a background to the sound. She browses the Net on her tablet, engrossed, oblivious to the noise. He snorts, she glances over at him and smiles. And in that moment, she realises that she is content; completely and utterly content.

Tomorrow, she may feel the restless arrows of discontent pierce her breast. She may long to be different, to be elsewhere, to be living another life; but today, she is fully here, awash with the delightful surprise of this contentment. For today, it is enough.

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