I remember when we were kids, outside, having fun, we didn’t want to hear our parents calling us to come in. We loved being outside, away from supervision, just free and easy.
As we grew up, and reached that age where we dated, we knew we had to get in before the time our parents set or would be grounded.
In those days, ‘home’ belonged to our parents, and we just lived there.
When we got older we got our own homes. Whether a room, a flat, a house, this was our place, this was where we wanted to be. When we are married and have kids, we venture out to do tasks, then race home. At least that’s how it should be.
But there are people, grown people, male and female, many married, who Hate to go home.
Take Richie. He is often the first to arrive and almost always the last to leave. He once said it; “I hate to go home.”
Married, with grown kids, he sets everything possible away from home.
Bernice is just like him.
You never want to depend on her for a lift. She must be the last to leave. As Richie, she’s married, but hates to go home. She’ll do anything to delay leaving, so if the meeting ends at 8 you can be sure she’ll do everything to stay those minutes longer, from conversation, to eating that plate of food she took a half hour ago.
If one were a singleton, who hated their own company, being the last to leave seems sensible. But these are married people. People who aren’t looking for divorces. People who seem to have taken their lives as a purgatory.