the way the late light hits the kitchen counter, all that dust i never manage to wipe up, and it turns to gold, like i'm rich or something, and for one second i almost believe it, before the kids start screaming about dinner. chris, oblivious, what's for dinner like i haven't been feeding people nonstop for a decade. it's not his fault, i know, but god, the weight of it, pressing down, and the lego under my bare foot, always a lego. i’m just dinner, and i am so very very tired of being consumed. … but it’s also, the way they still reach for my hand, that tiny squeeze when we’re walking into the store, and for a second it’s enough, it's almost enough to forget the legos and the goldfish crumbs and the endless what’s for dinner. almost. chris means well. he tries. that has to be enough, right? or do i keep swallowing, jaw clenched until it explodes?