Ben is five, loud and restless, incapable of stillness.
Maisie is two, stubborn, curly-haired, and unaware of how much she changed our lives simply by being born.
I work full-time at a warehouse.
It’s exhausting but reliable.
After hours, I take whatever side work I can find—repairs, hauling, patching walls, fixing lights.
Anything that keeps the house running.
The house itself is worn down.
The roof leaks when it rains hard.
The dryer only works if you slam it just right.
Our old minivan makes a new threatening sound every week.
But my kids eat.
They’re warm.
They’re loved.
That afternoon, after school and daycare, we stopped at the grocery store.
Milk. Bread. Fruit. Diapers.
Only what I could afford without pushing the numbers too far.
Ben climbed into the bottom of the cart and announced he was “the motor.”
Clara carefully inspected apples, searching for the “happiest” ones.
Aaron knocked over a stack of cereal boxes and pretended it wasn’t him.
Maisie hummed quietly, crumbs falling from a snack I didn’t remember handing her.
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