I couldn’t choose what to cook

Dear Delyara, I opened the fridge, looked at the shelves, and felt actual resentment toward the concept of dinner. There was food in there. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was decision fatigue. Every option came with too many attached thoughts. Too long, too boring, too messy, too expensive, not enough for tomorrow, they won’t eat that, I don’t have energy for chopping, I don’t have patience for complaints. I stood there holding the fridge door open like it owed me a solution. In the end I made omelettes. Everybody ate. It was fine. But I want to say this plainly: being the one who decides dinner most nights is not a small task. It is repeated emotional labour with onions.