I burned the toast and felt attacked by the morning

Dear Delyara, It had already been one of those starts. One child in a bad mood. One message from school. One missing shoe. One low balance notification from the bank. By the time I smelled the toast burning, I could feel how little room was left between me and overreaction. It was only toast. Still, I stood there scraping blackened bread into the bin as if the morning had personally conspired against me. That’s what I find hardest about ordinary pressure: it makes little things arrive with completely unfair emotional volume. I made more toast. Everyone ate. No one would have guessed how close I was to crying over bread. That is how many mornings are held together in this house. By inches.