The Kind of Day That Breaks You Slowly
It was a normal Tuesday, which is to say it wasn’t normal at all.
It was diaper laundry and reheated pasta.
It was cold coffee and mental checklists.
My baby, Owen, was six months old and stuck in a phase that felt endless.
My husband, Will, was working long hospital shifts.
I was running on fumes, pretending I was fine because it felt easier than admitting I wasn’t.
Keane sat in his usual spot in the living room.
Tablet in front of him.
Matching colors and shapes in calm, repetitive loops.
Quiet. Focused. Predictable.
