I Opened the Fridge and Wanted to Be Somebody Else

Dear Delyara, Somebody who had already cooked. Somebody whose evening wasn’t waiting in ingredients. Somebody who could open a fridge and feel comfort instead of responsibility. I looked at the vegetables, the leftovers, the half-used things, the things that needed deciding, and I felt this ugly little wave of self-pity rise up in me. Not because cooking is oppression. Because I was tired. And when a woman is tired enough, one more ordinary duty can feel like a personal rejection by life itself. I cooked anyway. I hated that I cooked anyway. I also knew everyone needed to eat. That is the kind of emotional knot I live in now.