I Wanted Dinner to Cook Itself and Love Me Back

Dear Delyara, I stood there chopping onions with one child asking something from the hallway and another looking for glue and my phone buzzing on the side, and all I could think was: I am so tired of making everything happen. Dinner, especially, can feel like this strange emotional threshold. It isn’t just food. It’s the whole evening turning on whether one tired woman can transform ingredients into comfort on time, in a decent mood, while being interrupted by life every thirty seconds. I cooked. But I did not do it cheerfully. And I think that should be allowed in the truth of things.