I stand in the kitchen and stare into an empty refrigerator that feels colder than it should. It has been three days since anything real sat inside except a half bottle of mustard and stale baking soda, and the emptiness seems to echo louder than any argument ever could.
I have already sold my earrings, my grandmother’s watch, my winter coat, and the black heels I once wore to a wedding when I believed life would include moments worth dressing up for. Bills devoured everything else, and rent finished whatever scraps remained.
My landlord taped another warning to the door this morning, and the clinic refuses to see Caleb without payment. My ex husband disappeared two years ago with a waitress from Alabama and left nothing behind except silence that feels heavier than debt.
That morning I kissed Caleb’s burning forehead and forced a steady voice that did not match my shaking hands. He whispered, “Will you bring medicine,” and I swallowed hard before telling him, “I will bring something better than medicine.”
He tried to smile for me, and that almost broke me completely.