Now she was late. Again. By the time she arrived at the community center, her blouse was clinging to her in all the wrong places, her hair had frizzed into a halo of betrayal, and she was pretty sure one of the muffins had flipped over in transit. A rogue smear of frosting decorated her sleeve like a badge of maternal mediocrity.
Susan, the HOA’s unofficial queen and self-appointed bake sale whisperer, met her at the entrance.
"Oh, Cassie, youbrought something," she said with a smile so gentle it made Cassie want to hurl the tray into a pond. "You tried your best."
Cassie smiled the way one does when suppressing the urge to scream.
Her mouth said: "Happy to help."
Her brain said:I hope your gluten-free scones explode.
Susan placed Cassie's muffins next to a platter of professionally glazed cupcakes with gold foil flags.
"You can just leave them here," she said kindly, "and we'll find them a spot."
Cassie stepped back, already invisible.
This was the recurring theme of her life lately. Show up late, try too hard, blend into the wallpaper. Smile while getting steamrolled. Pretend she didn't notice.
And people loved her for it. They loved how "flexible" she was. How "helpful."How "easygoing."
They didn't know she had a running fantasy where she snapped and screamed, "YOU DO IT, SUSAN." Then disappeared in a puff of smoke and menopause sweat.
Her phone buzzed again.
Boss (emotionally tone-deaf):
Quick favor—can you cover the 10am pitch call for Dana? She had a family thing
Cassie looked at her watch. It was 9:45. She was double-booked already.
She texted back:
Sure
Then added a smiley face because otherwise it read like she might murder someone.
By the time she flung herself into her desk chair for the Zoom call, her shirt clung to her in humid betrayal, and her laptop gave her the spinning wheel of death just for dramatic flair.
She could feel it rising—that feeling. The one where her eyes started to burn and her chest got tight, and everything, even breathing, required effort she didn't have.
It wasn't burnout. It was incineration. And she was pretending like it wasn't happening because everyone else seemed to be juggling kids and jobsand bake sales and perfect flower beds without falling apart.
At work,her boss accused her of "dropping the ball" on a document Cassie had never even seen. Her coworker-slash-"friend" took credit for the presentation Cassie stayed up rewriting until midnight.
Cassie said nothing. She smiled, nodded, and made a mental note to scream into a pillow later.
"Perfect," she muttered to her coffee mug, which was empty because of course it was. "I love starting my Mondays by mopping up betrayal with paper towels."
By 2 p.m., she'd been asked three different times to "pivot." As if her spine weren't already metaphorically snapped.
She went home early. She told her boss she wasn't feeling well—which was true if you counted existential disintegration as a medical condition.
She dropped her keys in the bowl by the door and collapsed onto the couch, trayless and muffin-less and dignity-depleted. She took off her bra the second the door shut behind her and let it land where it may. Freedom had never felt so defeated.
The truth was simple: Cassie was tired.
Tired of being the reliable one. The agreeable one. The woman who said yes when she wanted toscream no. The one who showed up with muffins instead of boundaries.
