Monday, Jul. 10, 2023 - 6:20 p.m.

A child tells me they want breakfast, I tell them okay, I’ll be down to make it in a minute. By the time I get down there, my mother in law is already cooking it in some extra labor intensive way. I feel guilty about not being faster. I feel angry about feeling guilty.

At home we default to making leftovers of things people like. Here, if there are leftovers, she frets about them constantly. “We need to eat these leftovers! We have so much! There’s no room in my fridge!” She says over and over. “There’s still leftover xyz.” as if that is absurd. I feel guilty about having cooked slightly too much. I feel angry about feeling guilty.

The dishwasher is broken. I wash dishes every time I walk into the kitchen. I never leave my own in the sink. I wash my kids’ dishes if I can catch them in time. I’m anxious to not be seen as shirking my duty washing. I feel angry that I feel anxious.

I come downstairs. “What have you been up to?” A transcript, I say. I don’t really want to tell anyone what I’ve been doing. Trying to hide. Trying to dream.

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