I am one bill away from panic all the time

Dear Delyara, I don’t mean homeless. I don’t mean disaster tomorrow. I mean something worse in a way — constant pressure. The kind where every payment matters. Every supermarket shop matters. Every school trip matters. Every broken appliance feels like a personal insult from life. I am tired of opening the banking app with my jaw already tight. I am tired of acting normal at home while doing private maths in my head all day. My children ask for small things and I say “maybe later” so often now that I hate hearing my own voice. My husband says we’ll manage, but I can hear the strain in him too. We are both trying to protect the house from the truth of how frightened we actually are, and that pretending is exhausting. There is never enough room. That is the real problem. No room to breathe, no room for a mistake, no room for one bad week, no room for my own comfort. I am always the first thing I cut. Better shampoo, a new bra, a proper lunch, a coat that is actually warm, my own appointment — I take from myself first because the children must not feel it if I can help it. I am tired of living like my whole life could tilt because of one envelope.