We got the Bunny seven years ago when the kids lived at home. The kids left. The Bunny stayed. He has arthritis, skin allergies, and bad teeth.  

Three vet visits in two months, yet he persists. Husband has become the Manchild. The name simply stuck. I notice his ineptitude more. He complains about work, bills, and missing the kids.  

The house runs on repeat, empty rooms echoing. We adjust to what’s left. Emptiness. Space. Silence. Visits are brief, marked by fresh laundry and remade beds. In the quiet, I talk to the Bunny. He listens. Home feels both safe and confining. I don’t know where the years have gone or what I went upstairs to get.