A few days ago, I sat bolt upright at two o'clock in the morning. There had been a noise. A huge thump from right above my head, in my grandparents' dining room.
Heart pounding, I threw back the covers and raced to the door. I flung it open* and raced up the stairs to make sure everything was okay.
Everything was absolutely fine, no one was hurt, my grandpa had just knocked over a dining chair with his walker while trying to reach something off the table.
I went back into my apartment, re-barricaded the door, went to the bathroom and checked on the girls before going back to bed. As I settled back into my bed, beside my still snoring husband, two things occurred to me.
One: Despite my innate chicken-ness, I will run towards possible danger** and try to take care of my people.
Two: That's a damn good thing, considering my husband slept blissfully through the whole thing and I'm definitely going to have to deal with any axe murderers*** all by myself.
*After moving the shelf that I use to barricade it so that I get some warning when a murderer is trying to come in.
**I know, there is no inherent danger in a dining room chair, but it could have been a murderer.
***I may be a little too focused on axe murderers.