I Ate the Last Biscuit in the Packet and Hid the Wrapper Under Vegetable Peelings

Dear Delyara, I’m not proud of how funny that felt. Not because the biscuit mattered. Because the privacy did. So much of family life is shared — food, space, noise, schedules, moods, interruptions, even thoughts sometimes. That biscuit, ridiculous as it sounds, felt like one tiny thing that belonged only to me for thirty seconds. No one asking to split it. No one wanting the last one. No one turning it into a family decision. I hid the wrapper almost automatically, then laughed at myself because what kind of grown woman hides evidence of one biscuit in her own kitchen? A tired one, apparently. A woman who sometimes craves not sugar, but secrecy. Not food, but one tiny unshared act. That was the truth in it.