I wanted one evening where nobody asked me where anything was

Dear Delyara, The charger. The school shoes. The glue. The letter. The scissors. The blue folder. The hairbrush. By eight o’clock I felt like a tired search engine in human form. What gets me is not only the number of questions. It’s the assumption underneath them — that if something is missing, my brain is still the most likely place to look first. As if I am the backup storage system for the entire house. I know children ask. I know family life is like this. Still, some evenings it makes me want to disappear into a hotel room with nothing in it but a bed and one lamp and absolutely no one asking where the scissors are.