Diana remained still near the stove. Strangely, she didn’t feel the urge to argue, to cry, or even defend herself. What she felt instead was something far more unsettling—clarity. For five long years, she had been trapped in this exhausting cycle. She would leave the hospital at seven in the morning after witnessing pain, loss, chaos—patients crying, families pleading, doctors shouting orders in overcrowded halls. She would come home dreaming of six uninterrupted hours of sleep.
Instead, she was always met with the same scene: dirty dishes piled high in the sink, the TV blaring cartoons, toys scattered everywhere, and her mother casually saying, “Watch the kids for a minute.”
That “minute” always turned into nine or ten hours.
Melissa always had a reason ready—meetings, brunch plans, salon appointments, “urgent” work calls. And Mrs. Linda, as if Diana’s time meant nothing, would agree without hesitation. No one ever asked if she was tired. No one cared that she was falling apart.
So that Tuesday morning, Diana smiled.