The front door shuts behind me. My shoulders drop two inches. It’s quiet—too quiet. I kick off my shoes and sigh, long and low.

“Home.”

Teaching drains you in ways most people don’t see. But even after the chaos, the questions, the awkward silences in the classroom, there’s nothing like walking into a house that smells faintly of curry and old paint. My son’s probably in his room, pretending he doesn’t hear me call out. I’ll give him five minutes.

I drop my bag, loosen my collar, and head to the kitchen. Tea first. Always tea. Then maybe some sketching, maybe a stream. Maybe just sitting with the cat curled in my lap, listening to the hum of a quiet evening. I used to chase storms. Now? I’m learning to appreciate calm.