My son’s trainer was under the sofa and I felt the whole week in my back

Dear Delyara, I had been asking him where it was since yesterday morning. He’d shrugged in that teenage way that means “I hope this solves itself without further involvement from me.” By this evening, I was on my knees with a torch looking under furniture. When I found the trainer under the sofa, I actually laughed. Then I sat back on the carpet and felt suddenly ancient. Not old in years. Old in effort. I think motherhood ages you in these small practical ways nobody photographs. Not because the task itself is difficult. Because of the repetition. The endless returning to what other people have dropped, forgotten, avoided, misplaced, outgrown, stepped over, or handed silently to you by not handling it. I took the trainer upstairs, and for a moment I wanted a witness for the absurdity of it.