I wanted one room in the house that didn’t need me

Dear Delyara, Not emotionally. Not practically. Not as the finder, the rememberer, the sorter, the answerer, the cleaner, the softer voice, the one who knows where the batteries are, or whether there’s enough milk for breakfast. I walked through the house tonight and every room had some low little hand reaching out from it. Laundry. Crumbs. The school bag. The damp towel. The thing to sign. The mug on the stairs. The charging cable. The dog bowl. The half-finished project. There was nowhere I could sit without seeing future effort. That may be the thing people understand least about domestic exhaustion. It isn’t only the tasks. It’s being visually pursued by the tasks everywhere you turn.