Some days, I feel strong and capable.
Other days, it feels like if one more thing breaks, I might just sink down onto the kitchen floor and stay there.
The only real cushion we have is the house.
It belonged to my grandparents.
It’s small, noisy, and the siding has seen better decades—but it’s paid off.
No mortgage is the reason we’re still afloat.
Two nights before Christmas, I was driving home after a late shift.
That bone-deep exhaustion had set in—the kind where your eyes sting and everything feels slightly unreal.
It was already dark.
The roads glistened with a thin skin of ice that looked harmless and felt anything but.
Soft Christmas music hummed through the radio while my brain ran through its tired checklist.
Wrap gifts.
Hide stocking stuffers.
Remember to move the stupid elf.
My girls were at my mom’s house.
