Cate hardly ever smiled. Men would tell her to smile more, as they would. Yet, she had always thought that smiling was a private thing, something you only did with your closest friends and family. It didn't help that she was a poet, and she always wrote sad poems and tragic stories. People thought she had an unhappy life, but she didn't.
That day Cate had gone to give a conference at a university about contemporary literature. Nothing unusual happened. There were some smart-asses asking her the same self-sufficient questions. There were some dumb girls who had bought her books just because she was coming, and they wanted to look clever in front of the others. And there were the young-Cates, girls that were just like her, girls who listened but didn't say anything. They were all the hope there was left for literature, she only expected to have made an impact on them.
She opened the door, the whole house smelled of roast beef. Mark always cooked something special on Fridays. Cate walked to the kitchen and kissed him on the lips, she, then, turned around and picked their little daughter from the chair. She smiled at her with a toothless grin. Cate smiled back. Yes, she was happy.
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