The Kind of Day That Breaks You Slowly
It was a normal Tuesday, which is to say it wasn’t normal at all.
It was diaper laundry and reheated pasta.
It was cold coffee and mental checklists.
My baby, Owen, was six months old and stuck in a phase that felt endless.
My husband, Will, was working long hospital shifts.
I was running on fumes, pretending I was fine because it felt easier than admitting I wasn’t.
Keane sat in his usual spot in the living room.
Tablet in front of him.
Matching colors and shapes in calm, repetitive loops.
Quiet. Focused. Predictable.
We took Keane in six months earlier, right before Owen was born.
Our parents had died a few years apart.
After a rough stretch in state housing, Keane had withdrawn even further.
When I offered him a place with us, he didn’t say anything.
He just nodded once.
Living together worked because Keane never asked for anything.
He ate whatever I cooked.
Folded his clothes into sharp, perfect edges.
Kept to himself.
He didn’t talk.
But he hummed.
Softly. Constantly.
At first it annoyed me.
Eventually it became background noise — like the refrigerator, like the clock, like life.
Until that Tuesday.
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