I always believed that with enough work and careful management, we’d eventually find what we needed.
Enough to eat. Enough warmth. More than enough love, even when everything else was difficult.
What I hadn’t truly understood—until that Tuesday evening in late spring—was that this “enough” was a concept I had to contend with every week. I argued with the supermarket about what we could afford. I argued with the bills about which ones could wait another week. I argued with myself about whether the numbers would add up and what I would do if they didn’t.
Tuesday meant rice at our house. A package of chicken thighs, a handful of carrots, half an onion. Everything was timed down to the minute. I was slicing the carrots to a certain thickness, cooking the rice to a precise quantity, portioning the chicken so that dinner would feed three people, and lunch for the next day was already planned. Every Tuesday, I performed this calculation mechanically, like calculations you do so often that they become a reflex.
I was in the middle of my calculations when my daughter Sam burst through the back door with a stranger. Source: Unsplash
The girl in the hoodie had her sleeves rolled up to her knuckles despite the heat and kept her eyes fixed on the floor.
My husband, Dan, had just come in from the garage. He put his keys in the glove compartment by the door, as usual, and slumped into a chair, visibly exhausted, like a man who comes home from a long day of physical labor, his hands aching with fatigue.
“Shall we eat soon, honey?”
“In ten minutes,” I replied, counting.
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