THE DAY EVERYTHING CRACKED
BEFORE THE MAGIC. BEFORE THE MESS. JUST ONE VERY BAD MONDAY.
Cassie knew it was going to be a bad day when her last clean bra disappeared.
She checked the usual places: under the bed, behind the bathroom door, clinging to the back of her desk chair. Nothing.
So she did what any woman on the edge would do—shoved herself into an old sports bra that was two sizes too small and threw a cardigan over her inside-out T-shirt. At least the cardigan had pockets. She'd probably need them for holding her last shred of dignity.
The coffee machine gurgled like it was being exorcised. Then sputtered. Then died.
She stared at it, deadpan. "Same."
No caffeine. Smashed boobs. Zero emotional buffer. All before 8 a.m.
Her phone lit up with a text.
Daughter (18, financially allergic):
can u venmo me $40? it's for books i swear
Cassie sent the money without asking questions, because motherhood in your forties was mostly just silent Venmo transactions and clenching your jaw during phone calls.
Another text came in before she could even lock her screen.
Ex-husband (47, allergic to boundaries):
Taking Peanut this weekend, not next. FYI
Cassie blinked at the paw print emoji.
Peanut. The one being in her life who didn't expect her to bake, budget, or emotionally regulate. And now he was going on an impromptu vacation with the man who still called her car "quirky" like it might be a compliment.
She started typing:
Cool. Hope he pees on your pillow again.
Then deleted it and settled for:
Ok.
Peanut deserved better. She deserved better. But the energy required to argue was currently in a coma, so she moved on.
As she stepped outside, her neighbor struck.
"Cassie! Goodmorning!" Marjorie beamed from her porch, snipping roses with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for blood sacrifices.
Cassie waved back. It was too early for confrontation and too late to pretend she hadn't heard her.
"Your flower beds are lookingso natural," Marjorie added, eyes glittering. "I just love when people let nature do her thing."
Cassie smiled. The tight kind that saidI hope your hose explodesbut with Midwestern manners.
"Thanks! I'm trying something new. Witchcore meets chaos gardening."
Marjorie laughed like she didn't get the joke and waddled back inside.
Today was the HOA charity bake sale for... something. She wasn't even sure what. Probably one of those catch-all causes: "Local Families in Need" or "Wellness for Women and Children and Maybe Puppies." Someone had guilted her into signing up weeks ago, and she hadn't remembered until 11 p.m. last night. So, she'd microwaved a box of frozen muffins and smeared frosting on them like that somehow counted as effort.
