It wasn't just exhaustion. It was erosion.
Little pieces of herself had chipped off over time—smoothed down by years of smiling and swallowing and nodding through gritted teeth. And now? She didn't recognize the woman in the mirror.
Her therapist had called it "people pleasing."
Cassie preferred "emotional hostage syndrome."
Because that's what it felt like. Like saying no would make her the villain in everyone's story. So she smiled. Said yes. Took on the extra project. Brought the damn muffins.
But inside she was seething. Not in an explosive way. Not yet. More like a pot left on simmer too long.
That was the thing about midlife… the heat sneaks up on you. You don't even realize you're boiling until something spills—and suddenly you're standing in your kitchen, covered in frosting and disappointment, wondering when you stopped belonging to yourself.
Then the cat barfed on her last clean pair of jeans.
Cassie carried them to the laundry room and didn't come out. She sat there. On the floor. Face pressed against the dryer door. She cried—not a cute, movie-style cry. An ugly cry. Snot. Sob hiccups. The works.
She was forty-five. Tired. Broken in the spiritual sense. Treading water in a life that didn't feel like hers anymore.
And then... something creaked out front.
She blinked. Wiped her face. Pulled herself off the floor.
On the front porch sat a box. Vintage-looking. No postage. No Amazon smile. No branding. Just her name, written in old-fashioned calligraphy, like a love letter from 1842.
Cassandra Morgan
Nobody called her Cassandra except her mother when she was in trouble.
Inside was a leather-bound book that smelled like rosemary and dust and secrets.
The cover crackled as she opened it.
A spellbook.
She laughed. Actually laughed out loud. The kind of laugh that sounded more likeplease don't let this be a nervous breakdown.
But as she flipped through the pages—filled with handwritten spells, pressed flowers, and symbols that made her spine tingle—one page in the middle seemed to... hum.
Not loudly. Just a little vibration in her fingertips. Like the static buzz of a forgotten song playing inside her chest.
The air shifted. A breeze passed through the room—windows closed, mind you—and her deadaloe plant in the corner suddenly sprouted a single, impossible flower.
Cassie slammed the book shut and poured herself a glass of wine so full she couldn’t pick it up without wasting any.
"Sleep," she muttered. "I just need sleep."
That night,she put the book on a shelf with her other mistakes: the bread maker she'd never used, the yoga mat that judged her, and three self-help books about "finding your joy" that made her want to commit arson.
She poured more wine. Microwaved leftover Chinese. Sat cross-legged on the couch and stared at the ceiling like it owed her answers.
Her phone buzzed one more time.
Automated Message:
Don't forget to RSVP for your colonoscopy!
She opened one eye and whispered, "Wow. Sexy."
