I nearly cried because the school cardigan still had paint on the sleeve

Dear Delyara, I had washed it twice already. It wasn’t even a big stain anymore, just one stubborn shadow of blue that wouldn’t fully leave, and for some reason seeing it there on the cuff made me feel defeated far beyond what a cardigan deserves. I think it was because I’d already tried. I had already noticed, already soaked, already washed, already cared. And still, the mark remained. That felt too much like other parts of life. The things you keep tending that never return fully clean. I hung it up anyway. It is still a cardigan. She will still wear it. Nothing terrible has happened. But that small leftover streak of paint touched some deeper tiredness in me — the tiredness of imperfect repair.