Enough food. Enough warmth. Enough stability to open the fridge without silently calculating what was left.
But in our home, “enough” was never guaranteed—it was something I had to negotiate every single day. With grocery lists, with overdue bills, with quiet sacrifices no one ever said out loud.
Tuesday dinners followed a routine. Rice, chicken thighs, carrots, and half an onion—just enough to cover the night and maybe stretch into the next day. As I cooked, I was already doing the mental math: who could take less, what could be saved, which bill could wait a little longer.
Dan walked in from the garage, carrying the kind of exhaustion that had become permanent.
“Dinner soon, hon?”
“Ten minutes,” I replied, still calculating portions.
Continue on the next page:
