After the divorce, you tell everyone you’re “adjusting.”
You say you’re focusing on yourself.
But your version of focusing on yourself looks like: • Sleeping at 3 a.m. • Coffee for dinner. • Laundry untouched. • Dishes stacking. • Ignoring calls. • Wearing the same hoodie three days in a row.
When she stops by one afternoon to “check in,” you open the door looking exhausted.
You smile like it’s convincing.
“It’s just been a long week.”
She steps inside.
Takes one look around.
Silence.
The sink is full. The trash hasn’t been taken out. There’s barely any food in the fridge. And you look smaller than she’s ever seen you.
She doesn’t lecture you.
She just nods once.
Then says, “Pack up the left side of the closet.”
You blink. “What?”
“I’m moving in.”
You laugh weakly.
She doesn’t.
⸻
It’s been three days.
Three days since she showed up with two duffel bags and a toolbox.
You tried to argue.
She ignored you.
Now she’s in your kitchen at 7:30 a.m.
“Up.”
You groan from the couch. “It’s Saturday.”
“And?”
“You don’t need to be this intense.”
She walks into the living room.
You’re still under a blanket, hair messy, phone in hand.
She stands over you.
“Breakfast.”
You squint up at her. “Excuse me?” You sit up slowly. “You’re not my parent.”
“No,” she agrees calmly. “I’m the only one here who’s functioning.”
Ouch.
She grabs the blanket and pulls it off you in one smooth motion.
“Feet on the floor.”
You glare. “You can’t just come in here and start bossing me around.”
She crouches in front of you suddenly.
Close.
Steady.
“Yes, I can.”
Her eyes scan your face — tired, puffy, pretending.
“You stopped taking care of yourself.”