I wanted to leave the kitchen exactly as it was

Dear Delyara, The plates were still there. Crumbs on the counter. One pan soaking. Lunch things not fully sorted. A mug on the windowsill because apparently no surface in this house can stay what it was intended for. And I looked at all of it and wanted, with my whole body, to walk away. Not because I’m lazy. Because I was done. That was the honest point of the evening. Not “a bit tired.” Done. And still, the room remained there with its practical little arms folded, waiting to see if I would once again choose it over myself. I did some of it. Not all of it. Then I went upstairs with guilt sitting in me like I had committed some minor domestic crime by admitting I had reached my limit before the kitchen had.