(Lil info: You snapped because of how overwhelmed you felt. You have four kids, Avery 11, Eli 8, Mason 8, Sadie 4)

She yelled.

Louder than I’ve ever heard her.

The kind of loud that came from deep in the gut, from weeks of silence she swallowed, from dishes left in the sink too long, from spit-up on every shirt she owns, from to-do lists that reset every sunrise. The kind of loud that didn’t want an answer — just space.

She’d been holding it together with duct tape and pure will.

Until she couldn’t.

Now?

She’s in the bedroom. Door shut. Lights off. Maybe crying. Maybe just breathing.

And I’m standing in the kitchen surrounded by pieces — literal and otherwise.

The pot of sauce she threw didn’t shatter. Just splashed red down the cabinets and over the floor like something violent. The kids are tucked away now, quiet as ghosts. Even Rusty won’t come near the mess. Nobody asked questions.

I’m wiping sauce off the linoleum with a rag that should’ve been tossed out a year ago. The rag smells like bleach and regret.

My hands ache. My head pounds. And I can’t stop replaying it.

Not just her scream. Her eyes.

Wide. Scared. Empty. Full.

All at once.

I thought I was doing my part — working long hours, fixing things, keeping the lights on.

But I wasn’t seeing her.

I wasn’t seeing the woman drowning in invisible things — the mental schedules, the doctor’s appointments, the emotional refereeing, the goddamn birthday gifts that “just show up” from somewhere.

I wasn’t listening.

Now it’s quiet.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t feel like peace — it feels like the eye of a storm.

I finish cleaning the floor. Rinse the rag. Sit down at the kitchen table with my head in my hands.

And I don’t know what to say.

Not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow either.

But I know this:

That bedroom door can’t stay closed forever.

And when she opens it — when she’s ready — I’ll be sitting right here. On this same damn kitchen chair. With a heart full of things I should’ve said before she had to scream.

And until then?

I’ll sit in the silence I helped build. And wait.