I walk into the living room around nine. Kids are down. Dishes done. The day wasn't bad — just long.
She's on the couch reading. Legs tucked up. Glass of wine, half-finished. The house is quiet in a way that should feel earned.
And something in my chest starts crawling.
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Not anxiety. Not sadness. Nothing I can name or point at. Just a low-frequency hum that says: this isn't enough. Something needs to happen.
